Lesser Evils
by Perching Kite
Summary: Our mission, our duty, is far greater than revenge. It is greater than justice, and it is greater than right or wrong. There is no room for idealism in the Grey Wardens... In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. femCousland/Leliana.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Greetings everyone. After a long hiatus, I'm back to continue, and hopefully finish Lesser Evils. Chapter 7 is the latest (and shortest) installment, but it should pick up again from there. Thanks to those who read reviewed and stuck around while I was gone. I hope you enjoy. - Perching Kite

Chapter One: Embers and Butterflies

"A clear day at last…" Torran Cousland murmured aloud as she pulled back the curtains of her modest bed chamber. The heavy grey clouds pouring rain for the past tenday had finally moved on, taking much needed moisture south-east to the fields of Amaranthine and the Bannorn. A mild morning greeted the residents of Highever, and the Teyrn's forces had quickly taken advantage of the clear day. Shouts, barks, and the neighing of warhorses floated into the room as the army made ready for its long march to rendezvous with King Cailan, and the rest of Fereldan's forces, at Ostagar, far to the south.

_To the darkspawn…_ Green eyes narrowed as she felt the rush of resentment flood back into her as she watched the familiar faces of men she had grown up with, _trained_ with, laughing and joking as they made ready for their first _real_ battles. Patrolling the coastline and trade routes for pirates and bandits was all well and good, but the chance to make a real difference, to travel far from home, was an honor apparently not meant for the youngest Cousland.

"I should be with them, Bear." Torran muttered as she stepped back from the window and crossed to her armoire to make ready for the day. Brown trousers, a white cotton shirt, and dark green tunic flew through the air to the bed, followed by her sturdy ankle boots and dark leather belt. "I can best every man out there in a fair bout! Even Fergus, though that was only one time," The end of the sentence was muffled as she pulled her nightgown over her head.

Bear nudged her hand with his nose and chuffed, large eyes seeming to ask, _what about me?_

"As if I could leave you behind, my most loyal of companions." Torran cooed to her hound, scratching him in the good place behind his ears before quickly donning her clothing. Just as she finished buckling her belt about her waist, she heard voices outside her door followed by the hammering of little fists.

"Auntie! Auntie!" A small voice rang out just as the door opened to reveal her nephew, Oren, and the teyrna following close behind. "Auntie! Come play!" The excitable little boy threw his arms around her knees and gazed up at her adoringly, face smudged with jam, no doubt from breakfast.

"Oren, what did I tell you about knocking and _waiting for a response_ before entfering someone's chambers?" Eleanor Cousland sighed in a long suffering tone as she entered her daughter's bedchamber. "We missed you at breakfast, Torran."

Torran looked up from making faces at her nephew and smiled at her mother. "Sorry, Mother. I just," she hesitated and glanced to the side, eyes narrowing again. "I didn't want to see father." This last came out as a rebellious mutter as she thought of the way her Father had harshly dismissed her request to at least ride with the army to Amaranthine if she couldn't go with them to Ostagar. She'd sat sulking in her room until late morning, feeding her disgruntlement and ignoring her complaining stomach.

"Oh, Torran…" The teyrna laid a hand on her daughter's shoulder, and then ran it through her daughter's long, silky black hair. Though her son and grandson had taken after her husband's fair haired Fereldan looks, Torran was truly her mother's daughter, with the dusky skin and fine dark hair of the people of Nevarra, from whence she hailed. "You know your father is only trying to do what's best, what's right for you."

"Being by his side is what's right for me!" Torran exploded, fists clenched tightly at her side. "What else has he been training me for, if not to fight for Cousland?"

"For Cousland!" Oren echoed, throwing up a fist as he was gently nudged away from the confrontation by Bear. Noticing this, Torran closed her eyes tightly and breathed out, letting go of her anger as the breath left her body. She hated letting Oren see her lose her infamous temper.

"Your father wants you to be able to protect yourself, and your people." Eleanor said firmly, even as she had to gaze up at her taller daughter. "Though Fergus will one day be Teyrn, and after him young Oren, you are the next in line should, Maker forbid it, anything happen to them. Until," her gaze turned sly, "You are married, that is. Twenty summers and beautiful, I'm sure we won't have to try hard to find a match!" She laughed at the disgusted face her daughter made and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "But that is a conversation for another time. Now come. I'm sure Nan saved you something to eat from breakfast, and you should say goodbye to your Father and Fergus before they ride out. Arl Howe just arrived, and I'm certain that means their departure is imminent."

"Yes, Mother…" Torran grumbled as she reached into the reinforced chest by the door and pulled out her most treasured possessions: the fine steel longsword she'd won at her first ever tournament when she was seventeen, and the round shield Fergus had given her when she first took up the sword. Sheathing them in the special holsters on her back, she turned to where Bear and Oren were playing and whistled. Gently, the massive hound lifted the squealing young boy by the seat of his trousers and pranced out, stubby tail wagging cheerfully as he and his young charge headed for the courtyard for a good romp. Sharing an amused glance, the two women followed after them into the bustle of a castle preparing for war.

* * *

"…AND KEEP THAT MANGY NO GOOD RUNT OF A MUTT OUT. OF. MY. LARDER!"

Torran and Bear sprinted out of the kitchens like Archdemon itself was chasing them, servants giggling quietly to themselves as Nan's voice followed them into the corridor. "You just HAD to go rat hunting today of all days, Bear?" Torran groaned as she slid down the wall, panting. Bear just looked at her with a sorrowful gaze, whining softly in the back of his throat until his mistress relented and rubbed his head. "Fine, I'll forgive you this time, buddy. At least next time, save one of the rats so we can have evidence of our innocence?" He barked in agreement, leaning against her knees as his tongue lolled out, drool creating dark spots in her trousers.

After eating a quick brunch with her mother, Torran had decided to spend some time in the library with Brother Aldous, the old scholar who had tutored her since she was a child. Her father had always believed that her mind had to be as sharp as her sword. _Though nothing will ever match my pup's tongue!_ He had laughed, mussing her hair fondly. Somehow, the brief perusing of the shelves she had been planning turned into a full blown project as she discovered an old treatise on Fereldan-Orlesian relations. Hours had passed, and warm afternoon sunlight was flooding through the windows when she was brought out of her scholarly pursuit by the sound of barking and screaming coming from the kitchens. Apparently, Bear had disturbed a loose floorboard in the larder, and a "horde" (according to Nan) of rats had scampered out, frightening the servants and sending Nan into an apoplectic frenzy.

"Never a dull day, Bear…" Torran shook her head wryly then rose. "Come on then. Let's take Never out for a run, bag us some fish on the coast, or maybe a rabbit on the way back." Bear barked his agreement and they were off for the stables, ambling between hurrying armored men and servants overloaded with supplies. Arl Howe's men had yet to arrive, and so the Teyrn had decided to send his son on with the men, and wait behind with the Arl.

As they passed the great hall, Torran glanced inside and then gasped. Standing with her father and the Arl was a sturdy, dark skinned man with some of the most fantastic weapons and armor she'd ever seen. As though he'd heard her, the man's gaze met her own and something passed between them. _Something unsettling…_ Shuddering, Torran stepped back and then flinched as a hand came to rest on her shoulder.

"Torran! I thought I wouldn't see you before we left!" The air rushed out of her lungs in a relieved sigh as she turned to the friendly smile of her friend and training partner, Ser Roderick Gilmore.

"How could I not say good bye to you...Rory?" She smirked at his expression of exasperation as she drawled out his childhood petname. "I may be angry about being denied my own tour, but I could never take it out on you, old friend."

"Glad to hear it!" He laughed, relief flashing across his face before it settled back into its genial norm. "Apparently I'm staying behind to leave with your father, so we'll have some time." Sneaking a peek into the great hall, he ducked closer and whispered "Have you met the Grey Warden yet?"

"Warden?" Torran replied with a thoughtful frown. "What would a Warden want with my father?"

"Not your father," Rory's face lit up with boyish glee. "Me! He's looking for recruits, and he asked if I was interested!"

"And how did you respond?" Torran clicked her tongue at Bear and started off towards the stables. "You didn't say no, did you?"

"Well..." Rory hesitated as he quickly matched her stride, great sword clanging against his scale mail. "I told him that my duty to the Teyrn came before any other, and serving with him as a part of Highever's army had to come first in these trying times. He seemed to understand, if a bit disappointed."

"You're a good man, Ser." Torran clapped him on the shoulder, smiling warmly into his eyes. Though she had a wonderful brother in Fergus, the age difference had left them more and more estranged as the years passed. Adding Oriana and their son into the mix, along with his duties as their father's heir had left the siblings little time to enjoy each others company, and as such she'd turned to Rory as a sort of foster brother, if not shieldmate. Roderick, like his father before him, had squired at Castle Highever, and been raised and trained in tandem with Torran. In their teen years, they had even tried at a dalliance, only to realize that their bond of friendship was far more sustainable than the awkward tryst.

"Aw, don't call me that, _Milady_." He responded jokingly, pushing her lightly. "Maybe one day I'll be a Warden," he continued, "But only after I feel my time at Highever has ended."

"Mmm." Torran nodded in response as they crossed the courtyard and entered the castle stables through the auxiliary gate. "Patar!" An elven faced appeared from behind one of the stalls, ever present grin on his face.

"Milady Cousland, what can I do for you?" The elderly groom —though one could never really tell with elves— bowed to the two humans. Bear ran up and chuffed at him, and the elf dutifully gave him a scratch. "Never has been restless lately, I'm sure she'd appreciate a foray this afternoon."

"You've read my mind, as usual." Torran replied with a smile as she walked up to the stall holding her prized mount. The black mare had gotten her name years back when she'd been given to the youngest Cousland as a yearling from one of the bannorn liege-men as a gift. The girl had seen the yearling, so much bigger than her at the time, and screamed "NEVER!" before running to hide behind her laughing father and brother. The mare nosed her mistress softly, nose searching through Torran's pockets for the treat she knew was hidden amongst them. "Here you are, girl." Torran relented, allowing Never to quickly snap up the carrot ends she had stolen from the kitchen compost before Nan threw them out. "Ready for a run?"

"Where're you headed, Torran?" Rory asked, leaning against the stall entrance. "Some of the other fellows staying behind were hoping to have a bit of a going away party for ourselves since we were given the night off duty."

"Not far." She replied distractedly, hefting the heavy saddle onto Never's back with a grunt. "I just need to get out of here for awhile. Take Bear for a good run up the coast, I think. I should be back..." She paused and squinted out the high window at the sun. "by the ninth bell. We'll catch and eat our dinner out there. I trust you and the other men will still be awake when I return?"

"Naturally!" Rory replied with a grin, backing out as his friend led the mare out of the stall and into the courtyard.

"Wonderful." She tapped him on the head, nodded to Patar and then kicked lightly at Never's sides. "See you then! Come Bear!" The two men watched as the youngest Cousland exited the castle gates at a reckless canter, weaving between startled servants with a laugh as she and Bear disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

"Ever the show off..." Rory shook his head with a fond smile before turning and leaving the stables. There was still much to be done before the morning's departure.

* * *

"...And these will be your rooms for the night, Ser Duncan." Teyrn Bryce Cousland halted before one of the guest rooms in the family quarter. "The kitchens are just down that corridor and to your left if you need anything, though there is always an on duty servant who can take care of your needs, should you so require it."

"Thank you, milord." The warden, Duncan, replied gravely, brow knitted in a frown. "Your hospitality has been excellent, as always. But, if I may ask...?"

"Ask away, Duncan." The teyrn replied with a nod.

"Who was that girl I saw walking with young Roderick? Dark skin, black hair?"

"Ah." Bryce's welcoming expression hardened, and his arms came across his chest. "That would be my youngest, Torran. Why?"

"I'm not sure..." Duncan murmured softly, eyes staring through the Teyrn as he remembered the sensation that had come over him as he met that strong gaze. "She carries weapons like a natural. Has she had much training?"

"Torran is one of the finest duelists Highever has ever seen." Bryce replied proudly, eyes brightening as he spoke of his talented daughter. "She won her first tournament at seventeen, and has since been undefeated in every duel, though she rarely competes anymore. Always seeking a new challenge, that one." He paused, and the frown quickly returned to his lined face. "You cannot have her."

"Milord," The warden began. "These are desperate times. The warden's of Fereldan number too few, and-"

"You CANNOT have her." The teyrn replied firmly. "She is my only daughter. I know I cannot shield her from all the troubles of our land, but I CAN keep her out of the endless wars you and your people fight. She is a soldier, a protector of her people, not a warrior. Not while I hold breath in my body. Unless," he paused, hand drifting towards the sword sheathed at his side. "You intend to invoke the Right of Conscription?"

Duncan's gaze sharpened as he and the teyrn stared each other down in a battle of wills. Finally, he let his gaze drop. "As you will it, Milord. I will not invoke the Right, though I let go of a talented recruit against my will. But know this: there is a Blight coming, and not even the loyal protectors of the Teyrnir can save their people from what is to come." His words had the ring of prophecy, and the air seemed to still.

"I'm glad we understand each other." Bryce replied finally, breathing out as the tension left the corridor. "Until tomorrow, Warden. I understand you will be riding with us to Ostagar?"

"Yes, Ser." Duncan replied. "I have done all I can in the North. It is time I returned to my men, and the King."

"Very good then." Bryce nodded shortly and strode away, up the corridor to the dining hall where the Cousland family, and their guest Arl Howe, awaited him. The warden stared after him, and then entered his room. Tonight was the last he would spend in the comforts of a real bed for many months to come.

* * *

_A Grey Warden..._Torran sat with her back to a salt washed stone, musing as the sea breeze whipped her hair out of its long braid and into her face. Settled nearby, Bear gnawed on a haunch of rabbit, one of the two they'd caught during the course of their ride from Castle Highever to the coast of the Waking Sea. The small fire kept them warm, though it flickered fitfully with the wind. Never whickered, tail flicking as she brushed insects both real and imagined away from her haunches. _I never expected to see one of them in Highever! We're so far North of the more inhabited areas of Fereldan that I imagine it had to be rather out of his way. Unless he was coming in from Nevarra or the Free Marches? The only people I've seen with my mother's complexion have been traders from there._ Growing up in Highever, and to some extent Amaranthine, had given Torran a diverse upbringing, and one tied to the sea. She loved it, the way it seemed to fight with the land, wresting control, parrying, feinting...an unending duel of unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects.

"What do you think, Bear?" She addressed the content mabari, flicking his ear gently. "Why do you think the Warden came to Highever?" He seemed to think for a moment, and then flopped back down with a shrug, cracking into a bone with relish. "I guess that means I shouldn't worry about it." Torran chuckled and then laid back. The stars were just coming out, meaning her time was growing short. Her eyes idly traced the constellations, from the shining Guide in the north to the faint flickering of the Demon's Eye in the south-east.

With a sigh, she rolled to her feet, shaking the sand out of her tunic and dousing the small fire with water from her flask. "Come then. Let us return home. I'm sure Rory has an even bigger bone waiting for you at this party of his! And," She sighed, shoulders slumping. "I should probably say good bye to Fergus, as well as apologize to Father..." Bear licked her fingers and gave an encouraging bark before prancing off to annoy the dozing Never.

The journey back to the castle seemed to take less time than it took to reach the coast, though perhaps it was the dread she felt at apologizing to her father that did it. Torran was proud, unashamedly so, and though she loved her father dearly, they were very similar in temperament. She had inherited the infamous Cousland temper in spades, something that her mild mannered brother seemed to have avoided. Thus, though they did not fight often, when they did it was often explosive and hurtful. The flare ups tended not to last, like most fires, and they usually recovered within hours. This latest fight, however, had been their worst, and she was unsure they could resolve their differences before he left in the afternoon with the Arl and his men.

"Good evening, milady!" Guardsmen in Cousland and Howe colours greeted her as she arrived back at Castle Highever. Apparently the Arl's men had arrived while she'd been out. She waved to the men and rode on through, returning Never to the stables and Patar's care.

After cleaning off her briny hands and face in the barrel by the entry way, Torran straightened her braided pony tail and entered, only to be tackled by a tiny ball of energy. "Auntiiiie!" Oren exclaimed. "Mommy and Daddy is letting me stay up late cuz' it's daddy's last night before leaving!"

"Mommy and Daddy _are_, young one." Torran corrected gently, hefting her nephew up and throwing his squealing body over her shoulder before continuing on into the castle. "By the way, who let you have sugar this late at night?" She spied Rory coming from one of the barracks and shook her head minutely. Celebrating would have to come later, after she'd returned this little one to his parents.

"Naaaan!" Sang Oren as he wrapped his tiny, sticky hands around the hilt of her sword. "She gave me a honey cake and tol' me to be good, and I eated it allll up!"

"I'm sure you did." Torran muttered wryly as she hiked up the last incline before the private quarters. The decorations on the wall became more lavish as she went, heavy tapestries depicting the history of the Couslands hanging from the ceiling to the floor, torchlight creating the illusion of movement as knights clashed and banners fluttered in the wind.

"There you are!" Fergus's jovial voice boomed out as he swaggered into the corridor. "And it appears you found my little rascal. Come here, you!" He swept his son into his arms, tickling the fair haired child until he screamed.

"Daddy! Daddy! Stooop!" Torran just laughed she watched the spectacle, heart warming at the antics of the adorable pair. Her brother was a wonderful, doting father, and she almost couldn't wait until the next one came along. She was hoping for a girl, just to see her brother wrapped so fully around a pair of little fingers, just as she knew her father was wrapped around hers.

"Fergus, must you torment Oren so?" Eleanor and Orianna entered the hall from the heir's room, both women bearing resigned expressions upon their faces. It appeared the tiniest Cousland had been raising hell whilst she'd been gone.

"Sister," Orriana greeted Torran politely with a nod and a small smile. The two women, while close in age in comparison to Fergus, had never spent much time together, as their chosen pursuits rarely overlapped. Orriana was the perfect lady, the perfect wife, and would make a good teyrna when her brother took over. She was so perfect that Torran was always being compared to her, told to put down her swords and pick up the needle like her sister-in-law.

"Mother, Orriana…" Torran trailed off as her father entered the area a moment later. "Father."

"Torran, dear, where have you been all day?" Eleanor stepped in between her daughter and husband, laying a hand on Torran's cheek. "You missed your father and brother's last dinner at home before leaving, not to mention Arl Howe's visit."

"It was a good meal too!" Fergus called from where he was playing with Oren and Bear, under the watchful eye of his wife. "Most succulent fish I've ever tasted. Nan really outdid herself this time."

"I went out for a ride with Bear," Torran replied defensively. "Since we weren't much use in the castle, we decided to get out of the way of the _real_ warriors for a bit." Her gaze cut towards her father in a flash of resentment.

"Pup," Bryce began sternly as green eyes clashed. "We've been over this. When the lord and his heir are away, it falls to the remaining Cousland to maintain stewardship over the lands. Your mother may have the love and respect of our people, but _you_ are the Cousland. Do your duty, daughter."

"I will…" Torran sighed, shoulders slumping. "I just," she hesitated, struggling for the words. "What if you need me?"

"Oh, Pup…" Bryce rested his hands on her shoulders, pride glimmering in his eyes. "I do need you. I need you here. Don't think it will be all quiet and routine whilst your brother and I are gone. You know what they say, 'the mice shall play while the cat's away'." They shared a chuckle as an image of the Highever Banns scurrying about with whiskers and tails entered their minds. "I need you to be my mouser, just for a little while."

"Yes, Father." Torran replied solemnly. "I'll do my best."

"Good!" Bryce straightened and mussed her hair, smirking at the indignant expression on his daughter's face. "Well then family, I believe it's time we went to bed. It looks as though Oren is already scouting out the path for us." The family turned to the little boy who was leaning against Bear's flank, fast asleep on his feet.

"Good night, Father, Brother." Torran gave them both solid hugs then stepped back. "If I don't see you before you leave, Fergus, good luck. I know you'll need it, the way you leave your left flank open!" She smirked, and then laughed as her brother tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

"Be well, Sister." He replied, gaze turning serious for the first time that evening. "Take care of Orianna, and little Oren, for me. Try to keep him out of the armory? I promised him I'd bring him back a sword, but you know how he is."

"I will." She promised, then waved goodbye as her brother and his family departed for their chambers.

"Good night, Torran." Her mother hugged her, then, eyes glinting mischievously grabbed her husband's hand and began pulling him towards their chamber. "Come Bryce, I believe we have our own goodbyes to say."

"Night, Pup!" Bryce called out over his shoulder as he hurried after his wife. "See you at breakfast!"

With a shudder, Torran told Bear to return to her chambers and then hurried out of the private quarters, heading in the direction of the guard barracks Rory had told her to meet him at. Not like she needed much guidance, as the closer she drew the louder it became.

"Torran, you made it!" Roderick's fair face was flushed almost as red as his hair as he greeted her with a jovial slap on the back and a stein filled to the brim with ale. "I was afraid you weren't going to show!"

"How could I not?" Torran replied with a wounded expression that turned mocking. "If this is your last night, I have to drink you under the table at least one more time in front of all your mates."

"Sure, sure…" Rory rumbled as he led her to a table with two other occupants. "Henric, Martin." The two men nodded gruffly, giving the daughter of their lord a slight bow from their seats. Without further ado, the two began their friendly competition. One drink turning into two, then three, then more as the night wore on, drinks going down easier as more stories were told. At times there was dancing, or singing. Some men pulled out instruments and played raucous bar ditties that would have had Torran flushing if she hadn't spent as much time with them as she had. Seemingly too soon, the party began to wind down. Snores came from dark corners, and the once flowing ale had turned into a trickle.

"Whaddaya t'nk." Rory slurred as his head nodded closer and closer to the table. "One moe?"

"Ah dunno, Ror'," Torran replied. Her head had hit the table sometime between the last drink and song, and she could feel sleep beginning to creep in. "father wans me a' breakfast in the morning, an' ah'd rather not 'ave an 'eadache."

"Ah well," Rory pulled himself up with effort and helped her to her feet. "Guh nigh then, Torran." Impulsively, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug that startled the both of them, then caused them to flush as they heard snickers coming from those still awake to witness it.

"Night, Rory…" Torran waved awkwardly at the rest of the men and then stumbled out. Before she knew it, her head hit her pillow and she let the pull of the Fade draw her into sleep.

* * *

Duncan sat up with a start, the dagger he kept beneath his pillow sliding into his hand before his vision swam into alert focus. He sat quietly, ears primed as the clank of metal upon metal, and the footsteps of a small group of men passed by his bedroom on the way to the private quarters. _A change of the guard?_ He wondered, though the sense of unease refused to leave him. Rolling out of bed, he quickly donned his armor and grabbed his weapons, steel glimmering in the faint light of the remnants of the night's fire.

Quietly, he crept to his door and opened it a crack. Down the hall, towards the lower level, he could see a Cousland guardsman leaning against the wall, sword placed neatly next to him. _Asleep on duty? I know Bryce, his men are better than this_. As he watched, the man slid down the wall and crashed to the floor, limbs slapping the tile limply, lifelessly. _Treachery!_ The warden slipped into the hall, heading in the direction of the castle gates. _If they've been compromised from within, it's only a matter of time… _As though his thoughts were the signal, the screams began.

Duncan sprinted down the hallway, and immediately came upon a group of outnumbered Cousland guards fighting _Howe? Maker protect us from maneuvering nobles!_ With a warcry, the warden entered the fray, taking down two men before they were truly aware of his presence with stabs that pierced their leather jerkins like a hot knife through butter. The fight ended quickly as the Cousland men rallied around the unanticipated aid, cutting down the men they had shared a meal with only hours before.

"You." Duncan pulled the least shellshocked man aside, gaze sharp. "When did this start? What's going on?"

"I don't know, Ser!" He stuttered out, clearly shaken from the unexpected skirmish. "My men and I are on duty tonight, and some of the Howe soldiers approached us. T-they drew on us, taking down Faran before any of us knew what was going on!"

"How many of them are in the castle?" The warden's mind spinning as he tried to remember how many of the Arl's men had come into the castle with their liege, and how many had stayed outside with the rest of Cousland's forces.

"No more than forty, Ser," The man replied, "Most of them were staying in the barracks by…" an expression of horror crossed his face as hid head whipped around in the direction of the great hall.

"The castle gates." Duncan finished grimly. Without another word, he turned away from the man, long strides taking him in the direction of the castle entrance. "Come! We cannot let anymore of them get inside the castle. Sound the alarm!"

"Ser, what about the Teyrn and his family?" One of the other men spoke up, hesitating to follow the rest of his squad mates as they trailed after the warden.

"Warn them if you must, but we must protect the castle." Duncan responded, not slowing. With a gulp, the man ran back up the corridor towards the private quarters.

* * *

It felt as though she had barely closed her eyes when the pounding came to her door. "Go away," she moaned, pulling the sheets higher over her aching head. "Tell the Teyrn I'm sorry, but breakfast just isn't happening this morning."

"Milady! Please, open the door!" Beside her bed, Bear clambered to his feet and stalked to the door, a loud growl rumbling in his throat. His ears twitched and he began barking agitatedly, rising onto his hind legs and scratching at the door.

"Fine, I'm coming." Torran muttered, rolling out of bed and shambling over to the bed, brain slowly catching up as the sounds of fighting filtered through the thick oak door. Just as she touched the handle, the door swung open, revealing a pale faced guardsman. "Harman?" Slowly, the blood staining his armor, the unsheathed sword came into focus, and her heart skipped a beat. "Wha-what's going on?"

"We're under attack! Arm yoursel-" He jerked, eyes widening as an arrowhead appeared through his right breastplate. Blood trickled between his lips with a gurgle, and he collapsed at her feet, revealing a group of archers and swordsmen stalking up the entrance to the family quarters.

"Maker…" she gasped, then swung the door shut with a slam just as another arrow flew in her direction. Bolting it for the first time in recent memory, she quickly slid her heavy chest across the doorframe, praying that it would hold just long enough for her to don her armor. Beside her, Bear was whining and pacing, ears twitching as the sounds of battle filled the castle. She could hear screams from the courtyard, and the frightened neighing of the horses in the stables. Her heart skipped as she felt the heavy thud reverberate through the stone of the castle. _They're trying to break through the gates!_

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear out remnant sleep, and ale, Torran ignored the hammering at her door and strode over to the stand holding her armor and weapons. _Good thing I fell asleep in my clothes…_ She thought dazedly as she struggled to pull the heavy leather cuirass over her shoulders and tie the clasps herself. _This is so much easier with a squire…_ She couldn't seem to keep her thoughts together, hands shaking as she donned her fingerless gauntlets and quickly tied her heavy knee height boots over her breeches. Hesitating, she slung a quiver of hunting arrows over her shoulder along with her short bow, then slid the shield into place on her arm and grasped the hilt of her sword in sweaty fingers.

"Ready, Bear?" She whispered, mindful of the presence just through what she'd used to think was the sturdiest door a door could be. In the short time she'd taken to arm herself, the hammering blades and maces on the other side had chipped through the hard wood, letting in slivers of torchlight from the hallway. "When I push the chest aside, you take out the man trying to get in. I'll cover you from the archers with my shield. After he's down, go for the bowman, I'll take care of their melee fighters." He chuffed once in understanding and then crouched just behind the chest, low enough that he wouldn't be seen in the chaos of the door flying open. Drool dripped from his snarling visage to the floor, teeth bared, reminding his mistress that he was a true mabari. War was in his blood.

Steadying her nerves, Torran stood to the side of the door and pushed the chest as hard as she could with a shove of her foot. It didn't have to move far before the door swung open with a bang, admitting a man bearing a mace and shield. Confusion flashed across his face as he surveyed the apparently empty room. The last thing he ever saw was the flashing maw of the hound as it leapt at him, strong jaws clenching around his throat and snuffing out his life in a gush of blood. Behind him, his men started as the girl they were sent to kill emerged from the room at a dead sprint, shield up to deflect any arrows sent her way, and murder in her eyes. She was upon them in a flash, sword flicking around the guard of the man nearest her like a snake tongue, downing him before he could offer a proper defense as she turned smoothly to the next, meeting the mace flying towards her head with her blade. Behind her, the mabari leapt from his kill and charged into the archer readying a bolt at his mistress, heavy weight taking the man down like a bull.

Torran ignored the terrified screams of Bear's target and focused on her own, watching his eyes. _Always watch the eyes, Pup._ She heard her father say as she ducked a wild swipe to her right and smashed the man's nose with the blunt edge of her shield, eliciting a satisfied crack as his nose broke and his eyes closed reflexively. She didn't bat an eye as her sword passed through his heart, and the lifeless body sank to the floor. The sudden silence in the hall was deafening, though she could still here screams coming from the rest of the castle proper. She flicked her sword idly, watching the red streams of blood drip to the floor. _So much blood_… she felt her stomach lurch and she dropped to her knees, retching. _Ready for war are we?_ She thought scathingly, sparing a moment to sneer at the eager to fight girl she'd been only hours before. Bear came up behind his mistress, maw coated in a gory mess, and nudged her with his nose.

"T-Torran?" she exploded to her feet, and found her sword pointing at her mother's ashen face. Even the strange Nevarran tattoo that covered half her face in intricate swirls appeared washed out and grey.

"Mother!" Her fingers remained locked on her sword but she lowered it, sinking into the embrace gratefully. "What's going on? Harman came, and then these men…" Her brain finally caught up to what her eyes had seen as they took in the carnage in the hallway. "Howe…Howe's men? Why…?"

"I don't know Torran, but we must get out of here. Quickly come with me to my room, I must arm myself, then we need to check on Orianna and Oren!" Eleanor turned and reentered her bedchamber, shaking fingers belying the calm with which she'd spoken to her terrified daughter. _Maker protect us._ "Torran, open your father's chest. I know he keeps a healing kit in there for emergencies along with spare weapons and armor." Her daughter nodded and knelt by the lockbox, removing a dagger and a small satchel filled with herbs and medicines that she tied to her belt.

"I'm ready, Mother." Her voice came flat to her ears, head still reeling from the violence that had entered her life so suddenly. She kept expecting to wake up from this nightmare any moment now, but the warm blood stuck to her fingers belied this idea as it dried into flakes around the hilt of her sword. A hand on her shoulder pulled her out of her reverie, and she looked down into her mother's solemn eyes.

"Come. We must check on the rest of the family. Your Father told me that he and Fergus would be with the Arl later this evening, but…" Eleanor turned and left the chamber, and Torran finally noticed her mother's light scale mail and the dangerous looking mace swinging easily from her hand. She'd known her mother's past as a battle maiden, but reconciling her gentle mother with this steely eyed woman was as difficult as grasping the reality of the rest of this surreal night. The faded tribal facial tattoo Torran had once found an out of place relic from the past settled into place as her mother's warrior persona reemerged.

The two women made their way through the family quarters without encountering any more of Howe's men. As they reached the area that was Fergus and his family's living space they realized that all the doors were hanging open on their hinges….

_No, no, no…_ the words streamed through Torran's mind like a mantra as they reached Fergus and Orianna's bedchamber. _Maker!_ Her heart stopped in her chest as the world tilted. She heard a despairing moan leave her mother's lips, but all she could see was the tiny form resting in a pool of blood, eyes staring blankly into space.

_Oren…no, Maker please, no!_ Her sword clattered to the ground at her feet as it slipped from nerveless fingers. She swayed, and only Bear's solid, whimpering presence at her side kept her from falling. The scene was a nightmare she had never imagined. Little Oren lay on the ground, tossed aside like a rag doll. His mother was on the bed, neck slashed so violently that it had nearly decapitated her.

Torran heard screaming, and only dimly realized it was coming from her as her mother's arms wrapped tightly around her daughter. "Don't look, Torran, please, don't look." Eleanor whispered, voice raw with sorrow as she pulled her daughter away from the bodies of her daughter in law and grandson, heart dying in her chest from the pain.

"Oren…" The name slipped past Torran's numb lips as she bent and picked up her sword. "Oren…" Suddenly, a raging inferno of pure _fury_ broke through the ice that had frozen her heart and mind. Never in her life had she felt this angry, her body vibrating with a force that could, would, turn violent at the slightest provocation. "Come mother," she said softly, green eyes taking on a dangerous light as she hefted her blade in her hands. "We must go. We must find Father, and Fergus."

Eleanor allowed her to pull away, eyes flickering as fear not for, but _of_ her daughter flashed through her. "Heel, Bear." The girl turned away, and began walking in the direction of the main castle.

"They will be at the gates, I think." Eleanor said finally, hurrying to keep pace with the younger woman.

"I know." Torran replied flatly, eyes scanning the halls ahead of them, ears primed for the telltale clink of armor. _There_. A door opened to her left, and a man charged out, only to receive the sharp end of her sword in his gut. As the corpse slid away, Torran lashed out violently at the next man, shield catching him in the chest so hard that he was knocked back a step, lifting his guard just enough to allow her blade to strike like lightning into the gap in his armor between the pauldrons and chestplate. Behind her she heard Bear and her mother tag-teaming a group that had emerged from the next room down, idly noting the fallen corpses of Cousland servants and guardsmen. Letting a blow slide off her shield, she whirled, slamming the iron bound edge into the throat of her current foe, part of her reveling in the crack as his windpipe collapsed and he sank to the floor gasping his last breaths. In the deep recesses of her mind, she could hear the horrified screams of the little girl who had once played at swords with her friends, but swamped the voice with anger. Those friends were dead, and she would be too if she didn't push aside such youthful idealism.

The skirmish ended, and the three Couslands continued down the hall. They approached the great hall stealthily, creeping around corners and deferring to Bear's sharp senses to stay hidden. Though the main group of Howe invaders was no doubt at the gates, the family had encountered groups of looters and scavengers ransacking the private and guest quarters on their way out. As they grew closer to the fighting and neared one of the archways, Torran could see a tall, redheaded man with a sweeping great axe surrounded by Howe men.

"Fergus!" His name left her lips in a gasp that somehow reached his ears over the clamor of battle. His eyes met hers, but the moment of distraction cost him dearly. One of his opponents had crept behind him, and a flashing blade was all it took to fill those green eyes, once filled with such joy and contentment, with pain and despair as he felt the life draining out of the vicious wound.

"No!" Torran surged forward, Bear at her side as she charged into the fray, wounding and slaying as she fought to reach her brother. Behind her, Eleanor cut down the bleeding men left in her wake. Around them, Cousland men fought fiercely against their one time allies, but all Torran could see was Fergus, who had slumped down to a knee and clutched at his side. The battle moved away from them, and Torran fell to her knees at his side, fumbling in her satchel for a bandage, poultice, something to stop the inevitable.

"Torran, Mother." Fergus gasped out, wincing as blood flooded from his wound, dripping to the floor in a growing puddle.

"We're here, my son." Eleanor clasped his face in her palms, eyes filling with tears. "We're here."

"Hold on, Fergus," Torran desperately applied a poultice to a bandage and pressed it to his wound, wincing as it was immediately soaked with blood. "We're here, we're going to help you, we're going to stop this, we're-" A hand on her shoulder stopped her, and she choked on a sob as she saw the resignation in her brother's eyes.

"I don't…" he coughed, a trickle of blood emerging from his lips, "They got me good, baby sister."

"No…" Torran's eyes filled with tears, the voracious fire burning throughout her body wilting as she sat with another lost family member. "Don't say that!"

Her brother slowly slumped down, staring up at his mother and sister with eyes slowly losing their focus. "What of Orianna…Oren?"

Eleanor stifled a sob and softly replied, "You will see them soon, Fergus. Maker willing."

"Oh…" he sighed. The two women waited another moment, but there were no more words.

"He's gone to join the Maker." Eleanor's voice broke as she lost yet another of her family. Torran retreated back into her shell, tense beside her, eyes locked on her brother's still form. Beside them, Bear whined piteously, nosing the body of his fallen pack mate.

"Torran! Milady Teyrna!" Both women looked up as a weary, bloodied Rory jogged over from where he and the rest of his men were busy shoring up the castle gate with whatever they could find. "Thank the Maker you are alright!" He clasped Torran tightly, and then started as her cold eyes met his.

"Where is my father?" She demanded, rising to her feet stiffly, flakes of dried blood fluttering to the ground like grisly butterflies.

"He went to the escape route in the kitchens, through the larder." he replied, flinching as the hammering at the gate resumed. He knew they had but a moment before the entry way was compromised. "Quickly, you must leave. The Teyrn is waiting for you there."

"What of you, Rory?" Eleanor asked. Her gentle face seemed to have aged decades in the past terrible hour, the lines around her eyes all but etched with worry and loss.

"The castle will fall." He said resignedly. "Our forces outside were forced into surrender at Howe blades, and there are not enough of us inside to keep them out. It is my duty to lead the men here in the final defense and allow you time to escape." There was silence as his words trailed off, all three sharing in a sense of disbelief and shock that their lives had come down to this moment.

"Very well." Torran's flat voice broke the silence. She clasped hands with her longtime friend and held his gaze for a long moment, years of friendship whittled down into a single moment of understanding, before dropping it and turning away. "Goodbye, Ser Roderick Gilmore. May the Maker be with you." Came floating over her shoulder as she and her hound made for the larder. Eleanor hugged him briefly and then followed her daughter.

_Farewell, Torran Cousland._ He thought, turning back to the splintering gates and his resigned troops. _Maker watch over you. Maker watch over us all._

* * *

Torran, Eleanor, and Bear made it to the kitchens without much trouble. Howe's men had come and gone, leaving destruction in their wake. Both women flinched at the sight of Nan slumped over her kitchen table, favorite chopping knife clasped limply in her hand; the old woman had gone down fighting as she'd always claimed she would.

"Pup? E-Eleanor?" Her father's voice drifted to them from the larder and they hurried into the dimly lit room. Torran felt the last vestiges of her shattered heart crumble, the sight before her eyes breaking her like none other. Her father, strong, invincible father, lay on his side in a pool of blood, arm clenched tightly across his midsection. A shift had bile rising to her throat as she saw a flash of intestine leaking out. Bear whimpered and gently licked the dying man's face.

"Oh Bryce…" Eleanor sank to her knees beside her husband with a sigh, her body weighed down with too many sorrows to keep her on her feet. "My love, what do we do now?"

"You must leave quickly." The three started at the voice from the door. Duncan, the Warden, sheathed his blade as he entered, hands raised peacefully as the mabari surged forward with a fierce growl, only to be stopped by a sharp command from his mistress. "Howe's men will break through any moment now."

"He's right," Bryce gasped out, pale face tight with pain. "The gates won't hold for long." He hesitated. "What of Fergus and his family?" A soft sigh escaped as his query was met with tense silence. "I see. Then there is nothing for it. Pup, you and your mother must get away. The Cousland line cannot end tonight!"

"What? No, I won't leave you behind, father!" Torran reached down as though to help him stand, and he shifted away from her with a gasp of pain.

"I don't think I'll survive the standing," He choked out, a wry smile twisting his lips. He leaned his head back into his wife's lap and shared a look with her. "You must go without me, love. Duncan," He addressed the warden. "Please, I must beg of you a favor. Take my daughter and wife away from here. Take them to the King; tell him of what has happened here."

"I will take them for you, Teyrn," Duncan replied. "But I demand a price. I came here for a warden recruit, and I will not leave without one."

The two men shared a long look. "I understand." Bryce nodded and turned to his daughter. "You will be a Warden, Torran. Go now, and quickly. Howe must not get you."

"Father…." Torran's voice broke, "I can't just leave you, daddy…" Her eyes closed against tears, heart hammering painfully in her chest.

"You can and you will, darling." He replied softly. Reaching behind him, he pulled out a sheathed sword. "Here, take it." Her eyes widened as he placed his sword in her hands. "This sword has been in our family since the first Cousland lord sat on the seat of Highever. Keep it with you always, and perhaps one day another Cousland shall bear it."

"Father…" Torran clipped the sheath over her left hip, and then clasped his hands, bringing them to her lips. "Please, please…" A great smashing sound reached their ears, and the clang of renewed conflict.

"The gate has fallen. We must leave. NOW." Duncan demanded as he pulled the lever Eleanor indicated and the secret exit slid open.

"Go with him, Torran." The teyrna said in a gentle tone. "I will stay here with your father."

"Eleanor?"

"No! No, you can't do this!" Torran's voice rose above her father's, frantic. The clank of armor was nearing them as Howe's men flooded the corridors of the castle.

"I can and I will, darling." Her mother replied, echoing her husband's words. "My place is by your father's side. I would only slow you down, anyway. You and the Warden have a better chance of escaping without me."

A low moan left Torran's lips as she was embraced weakly by her father, and then her mother's arms encircled her. "Go, daughter. You must live. Tell the King what happened here."

"I will," Torran's voice strengthened as she felt the inferno rise up within her once more. "I _will_ avenge you. I swear it!"

"Live, daughter," Eleanor insisted, holding her daughter's tortured gaze. "Do not let hate and anger destroy you the way it has destroyed us. Live and love, Torran. Never forget our love for you. Now go, and don't look back." She turned her gaze away, murmuring to her husband as his eyes dimmed.

"Out of time." Duncan pulled Torran away from her parents and shoved her forward into the tunnel just as the door to the kitchens smashed open. The warden kept the girl and her dog ahead of him as they ran, forcing her onwards when she turned back at the sound of steel clashing within the larder.

"No! Mother! Father!" She moved as if to go back, fingers reaching for her sword. She never saw the fist that came out of the darkness, nor felt herself hefted over the shoulder of the warden as he continued onward into the night.

* * *

Next time: Torran and Duncan travel to Lothering, a familiar face makes an appearance, and Bear misses dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Memories Written in Blood**

Finding the horses had been a much needed blessing. In the chaos of the fall of Castle Highever, the horses had stampeded and broken out of the stables. Howe's men had managed to corral the majority, but several had escaped into the darkness of the night. It was the hound who came across the three horses as he loped beside the tireless Warden. Gratefully, Duncan eased his burden over the black mare that had approached him first, lashing the girl onto its back with rope from his pack before attaching a lead to the second and mounting the third, a gelding.

The escapees continued their journey long into the morning, putting as much distance as possible between them and the bounds of Highever. It was mid morning, sun rising high into the sky, when Duncan finally allowed the chestnut gelding to ease into a walk, dismounting to lead the small group out of the open fields of the bannorn and into a small glade. He had avoided the roads, knowing the Arl's men would be combing all of the easiest routes for the last Cousland and the Warden, sole credible witnesses to his treachery.

Laying the girl on the grass with her satchel as a pillow, the Warden set to putting together a rough camp. The mabari sat stoically next to his mistress, intelligent eyes watching as the dark man saw to the horses and began preparing a rough breakfast of dry rations and a flask of summer wine he'd managed to procure during the escape from the castle. Every few minutes a whimper would escape the hound's throat, and he'd nudge his unconscious mistress's hand with his nose.

A few minutes later, the Cousland girl began to stir, eyelids flickering and a small moan escaping her lips as her hands clenched and relaxed. Finally, her eyes opened and flicked about the glade, taking in the horses, her hound, and the man sitting across from her, watching her with a steady dark gaze. "It wasn't a dream, was it." Her voice emerged raspy and toneless.

"I'm afraid not, Teyrna." Duncan replied gravely, noting her flinch at the title. "We traveled throughout the night. I cannot be certain, but we should be three day's ride away from Lothering."

"I see." Torran sat up with a groan, muscles sore from the fighting, not to mention being manhandled in her armor, flexible as it was. More than that, she was just _tired._ _And hungry._ Her stomach rumbled at the thought, and she accepted the proffered meal from the warden with a nod. They sat in silence as the girl picked at her food halfheartedly. Bear ended up with the majority of it, by the end, and Torran's gaze turned inward. She stared blankly into space, twitching every now and then from the pain of memories of the past night.

"Will you accept your position in the Wardens?" Duncan asked finally. Though he would respect the space she needed to grieve, he had seen far too many survivors of such nights waste away into nothing. He wouldn't let that happen to this one.

"Where else would I go?" She replied listlessly, playing idly with her braid as flecks of dried blood fell around her shoulders. Her hair was matted in places and had escaped the tight control of its braid to fall into a curtain hiding her eyes. Had her ears been sharper she could have passed for one of the feral dalish folk.

Duncan nodded and accepted her inferred acquiescence. They sat in silence for nearly an hour as Torran rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Duncan spent the time planning their travel and whether it would be risking too much to stop in Lothering for long. Undoubtedly, Howe knew the only place the Warden could take the last Cousland and be safe would be the King's side, and would be maneuvering to get there first. They had a bit of a head start, and Howe himself would have to remain in Highever to solidify is control of the local Banns, but Duncan didn't doubt for a moment that the Arl would have sent some of his men straight to Ostagar to spread lies about the events that had occurred the night before.

"Come, we must keep going." Duncan stood and approached the gelding he was using as a pack horse, retrieving a wrapped bundle from its back and handing it to the girl. "I believe these would be better served in your hands than packed away." She nodded wordlessly and took the bundle into her arms before standing away from him to open it. He watched as her shoulders shook for a moment as she sheathed her family sword across her back and slung her brother's shield over it. Still silent, she walked to the black mare and stroked her nose, the first sign of gentleness he'd seen in the girl since their harrowing escape. At her side was her faithful mabari, staring up at his mistress with sad, understanding eyes.

The two humans mounted up, bareback with rope bits their only method of controlling the recovered horses. Setting a quick pace, Duncan led them out of the glade and back into the open meadows of the bannorn, keeping to the edge of the forest and out of sight of the freehold houses and settlements. Torran let Never decide their pace, reins lying limp in her fingers as she slouched in her seat. Bear loped along beside her, every now and then chuffing up at his mistress in support.

* * *

_Mother…Father…Oren…Fergus…Orriana…Rory…Nan…_ The list of names went on, repeating itself over and over as she recited the names of all the people who had perished when the castle was taken. She was the last that was left. Everyone she had ever known, ever cared for… She shut her eyes and squeezed out those thoughts, nails digging into her palms until they bled. She couldn't think about it anymore. If she did, she would drown in the sorrow that threatened to consume her.

Instead, she thought of Howe. She thought of Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine. She thought of his shifty eyes, his callow humour and the cunning smirk that perpetually twisted his lips. She thought of how he would laugh at her father's jokes, even as he plotted the death and destruction everything the Teyrn had been working towards his entire life. As she thought of the bastard that had ruined her life so much that she may as well have died, Torran fed her anger, feeling it rise within her until it neared the inferno that had carried her throughout the days following Howe's treachery.

"Torran." Duncan's voice interrupted her reverie, and she shot him a glare so scathing that the warden sat back in surprise and his hand drifted to his dagger in reflex. He coughed and started again, internally reminding himself to keep a sharper eye on the girl. "When we reach Lothering," he squinted up at the sun. "In about three hours, let me do most of the talking. Avoid any liveried soldiers, or armed men for that matter. We don't know who Howe has set on our tail."

"Not a problem." The leather gloves on Torran's hands creaked as she clenched them around Never's reins. _Howe…_ Her anger flared and then settled back into a hot simmer. "Are there any tattooists in Lothering?"

"I believe so. There is usually a village tattooist at every settlement, amongst the humans at least. The elves have their own, naturally, but I've never heard of one tattooing a human customer." Duncan replied. "Why?"

"No reason." Torran replied shortly, dismissing the man and turning back to her thoughts. All she knew about her mother's people and homeland came from stories she'd heard as a girl, and it was the mourning ritual that the warrior caste performed for their dead, relayed by her mother following the death of one of her cousins, that occupied her mind. The women would mark themselves with ink for their lost ones, and sacrifice locks of hair to the Old Gods for safe delivery of the souls of the fallen.

_I will do this for you, Mother. For you, for Oren, for Father…_ She cut herself off before the litany could begin again, filling her mind with images of Howe and just how thoroughly she would kill him when she finally got her hands around his scrawny, arrogant…

Duncan watched while the girl seethed, frowning as her expression flitted between intense grief, sudden stillness, and a snarl of rage that frightened even him. Perhaps his newest recruit would prove too unstable to survive the Taint. _No. _He shook himself. _I know what I felt when I first laid eyes on her. This girl was _meant_ to be a Warden._ Her expression shifted once more and he sighed. _Though only the Maker knows what kind of Warden she shall be…_ Clicking his tongue he kneed his gelding into a gallop. The sooner they reached Ostagar the better. He could feel the taint churning within him, and knew the hour was quickly growing late for Fereldan's peace.

* * *

Lothering had seen its fair share of soldiers traveling through the town as the various Banns journeyed south to join the grand army of Fereldan and their King at the ruins of Ostagar. None of these troops caused as much stir as the entry of the Fereldan Warden Commander, Duncan, and the waif of a girl and her mabari that trailed behind him.

Sister Leliana was leading a prayer for a group of departing soldiers when her eyes caught movement through the town. Her words slowed, almost halting as her gaze was met for a brief moment by a pair of empty green eyes shadowed by dirty black hair. _Maker…_

Gathering herself she continued the sermon, her distraction unnoticed by the supplicants kneeling before her. Perhaps she would have time to observe the strange pair later, she decided, returning her eyes to her duties, though her thoughts remained fixated on that broken gaze.

* * *

Torran felt a measure of relief as they finally rode into Fereldan's largest frontier town, Lothering, though she couldn't quite muster any interest in her surroundings. The journey across the bannorn had been torturous, filled with thoughts she couldn't control and emotions that fluctuated from a desire to die to a desire to see everything around her burn, suffer beneath her rage. Only Bear's constant presence at her side and the familiarity of Never moving between her legs and kept her from falling by the wayside.

_Not that Duncan would let that happen_. She thought, bitterly cognizant of the Warden's gaze on her throughout their travels. She lifted her head as she heard the familiar strains of the Chant, turning to the sound and feeling a shock that seemed to jolt her cold body like a bolt of lightning. Her gaze locked onto a pair of innocent sky blue eyes framed by red hair that immediately brought to mind Ore- she tore her eyes away, gritting her teeth as she forcefully dispelled the thought.

"Here we are." Torran's head shot up as Duncan dismounted in front of the town's smallest inn, closest to the southern exit, and Ostagar. "Tie your horse here, the grooms will take care of her. Dinner will no doubt be served in an hour or so, though," he paused and gave her a quick once over. Clothes torn and bloody, and the dust of travel smeared across a weary face. "You might wish to bathe first and rest for a bit. Here," he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small purse. "Ask the innkeeper for two rooms and a bath for yourself, as well as a meal for two. I mean three." He amended at Bear's indignant bark. The girl nodded and took the purse as she dismounted, tying Never to the post next to the other horses and patting her gently on the nose. "In the meantime, I will go restock our travel supplies and procure some new clothing for you. Tack for the horses as well."

"Very well." The girl replied as she moved to enter the homely looking two story building.

"Oh, before I forget." His hand had barely settled on Torran's shoulder before her whole body stiffened as she flinched away from the touch.

"Don't." Was all she said, though the true warning was the flicker in her eyes emanating violence.

"What are your measurements?" Duncan continued calmly, though his gaze sharpened. "It should be easy enough to find some female clothing…"

"A shirt, tunic, and trousers will be fine." The girl replied, gesturing to her once fine clothing. "A simple travel cloak would be welcome as well. Though," she paused as a swirl of emotion crossed her face. "No green." The warden nodded to the request as he turned to go about his errands. _Cousland colours._

Entering the inn with Bear close behind, Torran was overwhelmed by the raucous sounds that assaulted her ears. Men laughed over steins of ale. The minstrel in the corner plucked at a lute and sang, voice cutting in and out of the din. Waitresses bearing trays of refills and empty glasses swooped between the common room tables like the pelicans of Lake Calenhad, rising and disappearing in a flash of white aprons and wide grins. It was too much, too soon. Torran felt her breath catching in her chest, panic rising as the people, the _voices,_ assaulted her fragile psyche. Moving stiffly, eyes averted to the gazes of the patrons, the Cousland girl walked towards the bar, hoping to locate the innkeeper, or at least someone who could point her out to him.

"No dogs allowed inside." She started as a greasy looking man stumbled towards her, a cruel light gleaming in his ale-addled eyes. She moved to avoid him and his hand flashed out, gripping her bicep before she could move. "Oi said, no dogs inside! What are you, simple?" The words had barely left his mouth before Bear's jaws clamped around his arm with crushing force, and the crack of bone cut through the din like thunder.

"Down, Bear." Torran's arm came down in a sharp cutting motion, and the mabari immediately backed off, licking his chops with a satisfied grin.

"That's a mabari!" She heard the whispers circling the room as the crying drunkard was carried out in search of a healer. "I hear the girl came in with the Warden! Do you think she's one of them as well?"

_That's better._ Torran squared her shoulders and straightened up, feeling more confident now that the common room had quieted down. Hearing the voices raised so loud reminded her too much of the screams, the cries, the blood... Bear's short bark brought her back, and she found herself standing in front of a portly, frowning man.

"What can I do for you?" his voice was irritated, as though he was repeating the question. He wiped down a stein with his dirty apron as he took in the blood and dirt encrusting her clothing and face, heavy brow creasing as his frown deepened. She relayed Duncan's instructions, and nearly sighed in relief as the man signaled one of his serving girls to show her to her room.

"A bath will be made ready for you right quick, ma'am." his nostrils flared slightly as her admittedly rank scent hit his nose. "Just...there will be a robe awaiting you in your chamber. If you pile your clothes outside the door, one of my girls will take care of them."

Mumbling her thanks, Torran and Bear followed the indicated girl back through the common room and up a flight of stairs. "This will be yours, ma'am." she opened the third door on the right and curtseyed, allowing Torran and her hound to enter first. "In a few moments someone will be bringing up a tub for you to have a good long soak. Go on in and change into the robe, I'll make sure your garments are taken care of when the others bring them out."

"Thank you." Torran managed a small smile for the helpful woman, though it came out as more of a grimace. She hesitated. "With the clothes..."

"Yes?"

"Burn them. Use them as rags, I don't care."

"Um, yes, ma'am." The serving girl backed away with alacrity, helpful smile disappearing as the strange girl's eyes hardened into steely chips. "Shall I bring dinner up to your room following your bath?"

"Yes." Torran replied simply, ignoring the shocked gasp of the serving girl as she carefully placed her sword and shield by the bed, and then began stripping off the dirty armor and clothing before the door to the simple room had even closed. The click of the latch alerted her to the girl's departure, and she quickly removed the rest of her clothing, tearing buttons and ties in her haste to remove the garments. The armor she piled carefully at the foot of the bed. She would clean it later.

Slipping into the robe was a welcome relief. Even more welcome was the arrival of the steaming tub of water that was hauled into her room moments later by a team of elf servants. They bowed and departed quickly, one man taking her clothes with him while another deposited a pitcher of water and a basin on the stand next to the tub. Nodding gratefully, Torran slipped out of the robe and sank into the hot water, hissing in satisfaction as the heat seeped into her weary limbs. Bear settled down nearby, engaged in his own cleaning rituals.

The two sat in silence, Torran staring blankly at the ceiling as the once clear water turned murky with dirt and blood. Slowly, the steady drip of tears filled the room, though the girl's breathing never changed and her gaze never shifted. Dinner was delivered without notice, and she would have remained in the tepid water had it not been for Bear's inquisitive bark as he nosed at the two covered dishes.

"Oh." Torran forcefully pulled her wandering thoughts together, returning to the present. "Sorry, Bear. I suppose we really should eat. Duncan will be back any moment now..." The girl doused her hair with clean water from the pitcher and scrubbed it roughly with the bar of soap, ignoring the flashes of pain as she forced her fingers through the gnarls and knots that had formed in hair during the course of the past two days. Stepping out of the bath after another quick rinse, Torran slipped back into the discarded robe and stiffened as she heard steps slowing as they neared her room. A gentle knock at the door….

_Auntie! Auntie! Come out and play!_

"Torran? Torran, may I enter?" Duncan called through the door, listening for movement. He heard the dog whine and then bark twice, followed by the sound of glass shattering. "I'm coming in, Torran!" Pushing open the door, the warden took in the scene calmly, noting the mabari's tense stance and the whine emanating from his throat as he gazed at his mistress. Clenched in her fist was a shard of glass, the rest littering the floor at her feet. Blood dripped slowly onto the debris of what appeared to be a pitcher.

"Torran," Duncan entered slowly, hands outstretched and tone non-threatening. "Put down the glass, Torran. What is bothering you?" Inwardly he winced at the stupid question. He knew what was bothering her, but he was in desperate need of a breakthrough. The trauma she'd experienced had been destabilizing, yes, but if she continued exhibiting this imbalanced behavior, especially these manifesting destructive tendencies, she would be more of a liability than an asset, no matter her skills with the sword.

_Perhaps this is the breakthrough I needed._ He thought as Torran raised her broken gaze to his. "I just…" the shard fell to the floor as she stared at the red liquid welling from the gash on her palm. "I had to stop them… The memories..."

"Causing yourself more pain isn't the way, Torran." Duncan replied gently as he picked up the cloth sack he'd left by the door and reentered the room, shutting the door behind him. "Your parents didn't sacrifice themselves so that-"

"Don't tell me what my parents would have wanted!" Her mood shifted abruptly, fierce anger dissipating into sullen resentment. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"If I leave you alone, what will you do?" Duncan demanded, struggling to keep his tone civil in the face of the girl's mercurial disposition. "How far will your anger take you?"

"As far as it must."

"And if it leads to your death?"

She smirked, green eyes burning with an eerie intensity. "You don't have to worry about me killing myself anytime soon, Ser. The last breath I breathe will be that which I steal from Howe's lungs when I kill him."

"If you are to become a Grey Warden, you must understand this, Teyrna Torran Cousland." Duncan deliberately used her full name and title, meeting her glare stoically. "Our mission, our _duty, _is far greater than revenge." He held up a hand to cut off the angry retort. "It is greater than justice, and it is greater than right or wrong. Wardens are revered as heroes not because we keep the roads clear of bandits, or liberate commoners from their oppressive overlords, but because it is the _Grey Wardens_ who are the _first_ and _last_ lines of defense standing between the complete destruction of Thedas by the darkspawn."

"I thought Wardens were supposed to be the champions of the Maker?" Duncan smiled internally as Torran's anger turned into the first positive emotion he'd seen in the girl: curiosity.

"Many are." He agreed, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. "May I?" Torran nodded, and he took her gashed palm, tying the cloth gently. He could feel the tension in the girl's body from the brief contact and dismissed it for another time, content that she'd calmed herself enough for him to see to her wound.

"Just as many, however," he continued as he stepped back and took a seat on the bed, aging bones and armor creaking. He couldn't wait to get out of the dirty chainmail and enjoy his own bath. "are not. Wardens are not recruited for mere skills in battle, no matter how strong. They are chosen for a variety of reasons, and none the same as the last. I have recruited honorable knights, champions of good and defenders of justice. I have also recruited criminals, murderers, the foulest of beings who lust for nothing more than battle and death."

"Mmm…" Torran took a seat on the edge of the tub, thoughts turned outward for the first time since… _Don't look, Torran, please don't look… _she shook her head sharply, ignoring Duncan's concerned gaze as the memory retreated. "So there are evil Wardens then?"

"There are Wardens who are uninterested in going out of their way to better the lives of those non-wardens they encounter, certainly." Duncan replied finally, musing on the question himself. "But truly evil? In the face of the evils we face every day that we are alive to do our duty, we are the lesser every time."

"I see…" Torran's eyes held even more questions, and for a moment Duncan could see flashes of the young woman she'd been before the nightmarish takeover of Highever. Bear, quiet until now as he listened to his mistress and the dark man talk, let out a plaintive bark as he touched his nose to the covered plates.

"Ah, it appears we forgot about the food!" Duncan ended the conversation as he rose and picked up the cold meals. "The clothes you requested are here in the sack, along with a sleep shirt." He glanced out the window and noted the position of the moon. "We spoke longer than I thought. I'll return in a moment with more, and we can discuss the second half of our journey before retiring for the night." Torran just nodded, receding into her silent shell.

As the door shut behind the warden, Torran swiftly dressed in the plain commoner's clothing, tied her hair back into a messy ponytail, and gathered up her sword, shield, and satchel. The small bag clinked with silver as she attached it to her belt. Quietly, she crept to the window and looked down, judging the distance between the second story and the ground, as well as the space between the side of the inn and the nearest building; not much. Behind her, Bear whimpered, pulling at her shirt as she opened the squeaky window with a grimace.

"Stay, Bear." She whispered as she straddled the sill. The mabari whined, flopping down at the foot of the bed as he obeyed his mistress.

Steadying herself, Torran swung her other leg over and dropped to the ground, air rushing out of her lungs as she tucked herself into a roll to absorb the force of the fall. She took a gasping breath as she came to a stop just shy of the opposite wall and scrambled to her feet, brushing the dirt from her new clothes. Creeping to the edge of the dark alleyway, Torran waited until she was sure of her anonymity and emerged from the shadows, tucking her hands into her pockets and striding quickly away from the inn. Duncan had promised to return soon, and for what she wanted to do she needed to get away from him for a few hours.

Avoiding the busy porches and taverns of Lothering after dark, Torran directed her steps to the modest Chantry in the quieter neighborhood of the frontier town. Even though she'd never been to the town, its layout was much the same as those all over Fereldan, and the Chantry was easy to find: no other buildings overshadowed the spiritual halls of Andraste's faithful. As she neared the building, Torran caught sight of her goal.

"Excuse me, Ser?" Templar Bryant paused in his rounds as the voice's owner stepped forward, frowning as he took in the girl wearing men's clothing.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" His heavy plate armor creaked as he crossed his arms over his chest and stood at his full height. "It is rather late for young women to be out alone." his frown deepened as he took in the weapons strapped to her back. "Armed or not."

"I seek a tattooist." Torran met his gaze with an empty stare, the attempt at intimidation washing over her with the ferocity of mist on a dry summer day. "I must see them tonight."

The templar acknowledged her request with a grunt, eyes narrowing as he reached out with his lyrium induced powers, searching for a trace of otherworldly taint in her aura. The girl's demeanor was confusing, a trait often borne by abominations and apostates, twisted with their evil power. Finding nothing, he grunted again and replied, "On the western outskirts of town, over by the ruined stone walkway, lives one of the Chasind folk. Bennet is his name, I believe, and he will be able to see to your questions. Is there anything else?"

"No. Thank you." The girl nodded and walked away, ending one of the stranger encounters he'd had since being assigned to the more or less sedate outpost.

"Who was that, Ser Bryant?" He started at the familiar accent and then settled, nodding in respect as he was joined by a robed woman.

"A strange girl, Sister Leliana." He replied, hand twitching towards his sword as he thought about the way the girl had stared blankly at him with eyes emptier than those of the Tranquil.

"Oh, really?" the petite woman's voice softened the harshness of the Fereldan language, inflection reflecting her Orlesian roots. "Strange how?"

"Just strange." The templar shook himself and straightened. "I'm afraid I must continue my patrol, Sister." He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. "You should return to the Chantry. It is late for a Sister to be out unescorted."

_S'il a connais…_ Leliana thought wryly as she returned the bow. _In Orlais, I would-_ she cut that train of thought and instead filled her mind with the Chant, letting her feet take her back in the direction of the women's dormitories and her bed. That life was over.

* * *

"Torran!" Duncan called from the hallway. "My hands are rather full; could you open the door for me?" Silence. Shifting the full tray carefully, the warden knocked, listening for movement. After a series of scratches, the door finally swung open, and he found himself before a worried looking mabari. "She's not in here, is she?" Duncan set the tray down with a sigh, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be getting a warm meal after three days of rabbit jerky and water.

Bear followed the warden out of the inn and immediately trundled off, following the unmistakable scent of his mistress. The trail wasn't hard to follow: the hound led Duncan straight to the Chantry gates, and then around the outskirts of town towards the ruins of the old stone highway. Their brief stroll ended in front of a modest one room home, decorated in what Duncan recognized as Chasind tribal markings.

After waiting at the door for several minutes as his knocks went unanswered, the warden followed the smell of wood smoke around the back of the house and paused at the sight that greeted his eyes. Seated before a chanting elderly man was Torran, the sleeve of her shirt jagged, as though hacked off at the shoulder by a knife. Her eyes stared fixedly into the flames of a small fire as the man tapped at her skin with a long bone needle and a hammer. A solid band of black ink wrapped around her right forearm just below the elbow, and below that five sharp red points extended towards her wrist at intervals as they circled around her arm. Above the band were rows upon rows of vertical blue lines, spanning the length of her bicep up over the curve of her shoulder.

"That's the last one." Torran's voice was quiet and certain, lacking the hollow emptiness that had characterized her words for days. Pausing in his chant, the Chasind tattooist replaced his tools with a much smaller set.

"You are sure?" the man asked in heavily accented Fereldan. "Much more pain, this time."

"I'm sure." Torran lay down as the man scooted forward, turning her gaze to the stars above as he began carving into the skin of her face, continuing the guttural chant. As his needle moved, a hazy memory from her childhood came to the forefront of her mind.

_Tiny fingers traced the strange markings on her mother's face. "Why do you have colours on your face, mama? Did your paints stick to your face when you were little like me?"_

"_No, darling," a much younger Eleanor laughed softly at the ridiculousness of the innocent question. "Where I am from,"_

"_Nevarra?"_

"_Yes, Nevarra. Are you going to let me tell you?"_

"_Sorry, mama…"_

"_It's alright, Torran. In Nevarra, a young woman receives her first tattoo when she begins her training."_

"_What kind of training?" Torran was sitting still, a rarity for the young girl, enraptured by her mother's story._

"_Well, some train to become priestesses. Others devote their lives to the histories of our peoples as scholars and academics. It is a small elite few," the teyrna paused, eyes shining proudly as she remembered her own choice, "who choose to be battle maidens."_

"_What are those?"_

"_They are the only women who take part in battles alongside the men. Though we often serve as scouts and ambushers, those who can fight in heavier armor fight on the frontlines with the other men in the many skirmishes between tribes that take place throughout the Free Marches." She shifted the girl in her lap, marveling at how quickly her daughter was growing. At eight years old, Torran was an inquisitive youngling, and all arms and legs. Soon she would be "too old" to sit in her mother's lap listening to stories…_

_Following her daughter's fingers, Eleanor related the meaning of the intricate half mask covering the right side of her face, explaining the meaning of the symbols and structure. Though honest about the meanings, she guided her daughter away from questions prying too deeply into memories she'd rather forget: the red teardrops welling from her eye when her best friend fell in battle, the black and white swirls from her first kill, the jagged lines above her brow that signified her devotion to the Old Gods…_

"_Does everyone's tattoo look the same?" Torran asked finally, shifting in her seat as she grew bored of the conversation. No doubt she had planned some manner of mischief or other with her friend amongst the castle fosterlings, young Rory._

"_No, child. Every maiden has a different story to tell with their tattoo, reflecting triumphs and sorrows throughout the course of their lives. My story is my own, and those with the ability to read the markings will know it. I even have one each for the children I have born." She guided Torran's fingers to the small emblem on her cheek. "See? This is yours! Now come, it is..."_

"…done." Torran's gaze refocused as the memory dissipated, and she found herself staring at an unfamiliar face in the mirror held before her. Green eyes stared back at her from pits as black as death, as though the crystalline orbs had been dropped in a pool of ink. Below each eye, just touching the sides of her nose, four sharp curves bisected each other in a macabre, broken butterfly's wing of symmetry. The lines arching above formed a set of unseeing eyes staring back at her, or perhaps through her. One of Death's many masks. A special one, meant for Howe...and any others who stepped between them. She was...content, with it, she decided.

"You know," Her eyes flicked away from the image as Duncan finally spoke. She had heard him and Bear enter the small, fire-lit yard, but chosen not to acknowledge their presence. "One of the many qualities I look for in Warden's is initiative, not impulsiveness. Could this not have waited at least until we'd eaten a good meal and slept in comfort for a few hours?"

"It couldn't wait." Torran replied shortly, sitting up and turning her attention back to the Chasind. "How much do I owe you, Master Bennet?" She reached into her satchel for the purse of silvers Duncan had given her earlier and pulled out a handful of pieces.

"You do me too much honor, lady." The tattooed old man rumbled through his thick white beard, carefully repacking his tools in a worn leather case. "For this, I will charge you nothing. You have paid a heavy enough price already. I only hope to ease your burden, not add to it."

Torran bowed low in her seat, arms crossed over her chest as she uttered a sincere thank you. Ignoring Duncan's proffered hand, she rose to her feet stiffly and dusted off her trousers, bowing once more before turning to leave.

"Shall we?" she strode past Duncan, the hound at her side sniffing curiously at the mix of ink and drying blood on her bared arm.

Duncan nodded in respect to the old man and followed the girl back around the house and into the dark street. Hours had passed as he and the hound watched the tattooing process, and he could feel every ache in his bones from the long journey. Bear's stomach had been rumbling throughout the night, and he could tell by the way the mabari's head hung low that even he was more than ready for what little sleep they would get before dawn. The moon hung low in the sky, and the early birds had already begun their chirping.

Bear charged ahead as soon as the inn's lit porch came into view, eager for the meaty bone he _knew_ was on one of the plates in his mistress's room. Duncan made to follow, then stopped with a sigh as he realized that Torran had no intention of following them in.

"Now what?" he rubbed his face tiredly. "The hour is late, and we have another three days of travel before we reach Ostagar. This day has gone on long enough, don't you think?"

"There is one more thing I have to do," Torran replied quietly, voice firm. "Go to your rest, Warden. Bear?" The mabari slunk back to her, face hanging. His stomach had been growling all day and he'd really hoped it would finally be time to eat.

"Where are you going?"

"Just outside town," Torran replied. "I need to make a fire. Don't worry," an unkind smirk twisted her lips before vanishing. "I won't run off."

"See that you don't." Duncan replied coldly, patience all but exhausted after dealing with the unstable girl's attitude for days. "We leave after breakfast, the third bell after dawn breaks." Without another word the warden turned and entered the inn.

Torran dismissed his presence as she and her hound walked the short distance to the town's southern exit. She nodded once at the sleepy guardsman keeping watch and followed the dirt road, senses alert for danger, as she searched for a suitable clearing for the next part of the ritual.

The pain in her arm had all but dissipated, blood and ink drying on her skin. She didn't know if it was the natural aftermath of the painful process, or if she was merely sinking back into that cold, empty place that seemed to dull her sense of touch. Her thoughts, for the first time in days, seemed to settle, no longer flinging themselves wildly about her skull in a mad dervish. She could still feel the rage boiling within her, threatening explosion, but all other emotions —the sadness, despair, self-loathing, intense grief_— _had simply vanished with each painful memory etched into her skin.

A rustle in the bushes jolted her out of her thoughts, and she whirled, sword appearing in her hand like magic. Before she could move, Bear lunged forward, huge maw clamping down on a squirming hare, squeezing until it kicked weakly and fell limp in his jaws.

"Well then." Torran smiled slightly. "You've certainly earned a meal tonight, my friend. I'm sorry for neglecting you so." Bear met her gaze and then chuffed around his mouthful. All was forgiven.

Having returned to the world outside her thoughts, finding a suitable clearing for her fire was simple. About a half mile's walk from Lothering, Torran and Bear came across a good spot bounded on one side by the ancient stone and the rest dying trees, starved for sunlight by the ruined highway dwarfing them with its shade. The girl quickly gathered enough wood and tinder for a small fire, thankful that the storms that had buffeted them their entire ride down had seen fit to stay in the north. Pulling her dagger from its sheath at her hip, Torran gutted and cleaned Bear's hare, cutting him a generous portion and leaving him to happily munch. She quickly cut her own portion into chunks and stuck them on some green sticks pulled from a nearby healthy tree before setting them aside, away from the flames. She didn't want to ruin her meal with what came next.

_I know you loved my hair, Mother..._Torran's eyes welled with tears as she brought her thick braid over her shoulder, remembering the gentle tug her father would give as he passed her in the corridors, or the harder one she received from Fergus until she got big enough to stop him. Her hair had always been her mother's pride and joy, frequently marveling that any of her children had received her bone straight ebon locks and resisted the strong Fereldan genes. Sighing, Torran cleaned her dagger with a cloth and then grasped her braid tightly an inch from the base. Strands of hair fell into her face as the sharp dagger effortlessly sliced through the ponytail, leaving her with a thick rope of hair lying in her hand like a dead eel at market.

Though she couldn't remember the words, it was easy enough to hum the Nevarran dirge taught to her by Brother Aldous. _Mother, Father, Fergus, Oren, Orianna..._ she recited the name of every soldier and servant of Highever who had fallen that terrible day as the fire devoured her offering, feeding it every few minutes with the sticks and branches that littered the clearing floor. _Rory, Harman, Patar, Martin, Ilse, Lalasa, Nan..._

Finally, it was done. The smell of burnt hair dissipated from the air of the small clearing, and Torran hurriedly placed her rabbit-kabobs over the dying flames. Beside her, Bear slept peacefully, every now and then burping up bubbles of rabbit breath as his stomach digested the poor woodland creature. The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time the meat had cook properly, and Torran hungrily devoured it, juggling the hot food in her fingers to keep them from burning. Far from the best thing she'd ever tasted, it was filling, giving her weary body a boost of well needed energy.

It wasn't just the food, though. She ran her hand over her newly tattooed arm, fingering the black band that signified the Dark Fade, where the spirits of people killed before their time waited patiently to give murderers nightmares in their sleep. The long arrows jutting towards her wrist, one each for the family she had lost, crimson for the blood she would spill to avenge them with sword in hand. The blue tear drops that marked her lost people, each connected to the memory of a face, or a name. She felt...cleansed, purified by the ritual, comforted by the heritage of her mother's people far more than the prayers to the Maker that she'd muttered under her breath the entire ride through the bannorn.

Placing a hand on Bear's huge head, Torran gently woke him and stood. The sun shone through the clearing, and she breathed in the morning air. It had been a trying week, and she held no illusions about the fragile state of her mind, heart, and soul. Somehow, though, in this place resting in the fulcrum of the harsh Korcari Wilds and Fereldan's Maker-blessed civilization, she had found a semblance of balance, of control.

_A precarious balance. _She stamped down on the fire, crushing the dying embers beneath her boots.

* * *

**Next time: **Loghain is mean, King Cailan a fool, and Duncan invokes the Right of Conscription.

**A/N:** The description of the tattoo was the best I could do, but if you remember the character creation options for the female human noble, it's the one that looks like a masquerade mask over the eyes and brow. -Perching Kite


	3. Chapter 3: Part 1

**Chapter Three:** **Conscript**

"There is it, Torran." Duncan pulled his horse to stop as the companions crested the steep ridge, a great valley stretching out below them. "Ostagar." Torran took in the lush valley with its winding rivers and wild flora interspersed with towering ridges and cliffs. Broken columns and arches littered the valley floor like the bones of an ancient beast, bleached white by sunlight. Straddling a narrow pass in the hills lay the ruined fortress, walls standing strong even after centuries of exposure.

"Is that the Tower of Ishal?" Torran's gaze settled on the tallest structure in the valley, a pitch black behemoth that thrust high into the sky as though defying the Maker itself; a true testament to the arrogance of the Tevinter Imperium.

"Yes," Duncan replied, closely observing the girl from the corner of his eye as he spoke. This was the first time she'd spoken since their argument the night before. "From the top of the tower, a lookout can see for miles and alert the garrison with a signal fire enhanced with a complex system of mirrors. A leftover from the Imperium, I believe. That, amongst other reasons, is why the King chose this place to make a stand against the darkspawn host."

"I see."

The three had made good time since leaving Lothering, riding throughout the first day and reaching the fringes of the Korcari wilds before nightfall. Torran remained a quiet companion, but Duncan could sense a stillness within the girl that had been absent before they reached the frontier town. As they settled down to eat at the end of the first day, Torran surprised him by requesting he tell her the history of the Grey Wardens. Interrupting only to ask questions, the girl sat and listened to him with an intense, attentive gaze that he rarely received from even his own men. They spoke late into the night, stopping only when Torran opened her mouth to ask a question and a rib cracking yawn escaped instead.

The next day passed in much the same fashion, with the girl rising early to carefully groom the horses, spending more time on her black mare than the others. A quick meal followed, and then it was back into the saddle for another day's worth of riding through the rough terrain of the Korcari Wilds. Nightfall found them in yet another defensible clearing, Bear gnawing happily on a rawhide bone Duncan had purchased for him in Lothering, while Torran lavished attention on Never and the two geldings. Dinner was eaten in the usual silence, and when Torran put down her plate and looked up at him expectantly, Duncan decided it was time discuss what would happen when they reached Ostagar.

"Torran, tell me something." He began, congratulating himself on catching the barest flicker in her eyes that indicated he'd caught her interest. Since she'd found her emotional footing, he'd only observed a bare handful of readable emotions in the girl, most of them neutral. "What will you do if the Arl of Amaranthine has beaten us to Ostagar?" He purposefully avoided saying Howe's name, yet the shift in the girl's demeanor was frightening in its intensity.

"I will kill him." Her green eyes went from docile blankness to steely chips, rage roiling behind her flat gaze.

"And what if he has the King's protection?" Duncan met her gaze with a compassionate one, acknowledging the pain he was about to cause, and the damage to her hard won stability that would ensue. It had to be done. "As the Arl of Amaranthine alone he wielded immense influence in King Cailan's court. With the acquisition of Highever, he has extended his control over the entire northern border of Fereldan, not to mention the trade routes over the Waking Sea, and the mountain passes leading to Orzammar and Orlais."

"I-I'll still kill him." Torran's voice wavered, doubt competing with the lust for vengeance. "I have to! I am the rightful Teyrn of Highever, it is my duty to avenge my family, my people!"

"Last of the Cousland line you may be, but upon completing the Joining ceremony and becoming a Grey Warden, you lose all titles you may have had in your previous life." Duncan watched as the words sank in. He had consciously waited until now to relate that particular piece of information. This was her test. Her loyalty to the Wardens needed to be absolute.

"Did my father know this?" Torran demanded, fists clenching in her lap until the knuckles turned white.

"Yes." His eyes softened further as the soft whimper escaped her gritted teeth. "He knew that leaving you alone with a claim to one of the largest teyrnirs in Fereldan would only put you in danger. When you finally become a Warden, you will be outside the law of Fereldan, and any political intrigues attempted by Howe and the other lords will no longer be legitimate if based on your heritage. At the same time, you will no longer be able to claim political vendettas against them, nor the seat of Highever."

"But…" Torran closed her eyes, fighting down the wave of rage that swept over her. She had to understand this. "Howe attacked us without provocation! He killed innocents, my family! How can I have no claim against him for that?" Green eyes blazed with righteous anger as she glared at the Warden who dared call her right to vengeance illegitimate.

"You can lay the accusation before the King, certainly," Duncan replied, meeting her eyes with a solid stare of his own. "The best case scenario would be one where he removes Highever from Arl Howe's possession and puts its leadership to vote among the local Banns, as is usually done when a Teyrn dies without an heir. Regardless," Duncan shrugged dismissively. "You are to be a Warden. Soon, you will realize your other duties are far more important than the fate of a Fereldan teyrnir."

"Then maybe I don't want to be a Warden," Torran growled, entire body shaking as she jumped to her feet, looming over the seated warden. The flames of their fire flickered, casting shadows over her tattooed face as she drew her father's sword. "The Couslands have ruled Highever for time out of mind, before Fereldan even existed, and every single one of them wielded this sword." She slammed it into the earth and leaned on the pommel as she met his gaze. "How can you ask me to give up my claim? My duty?"

"You gave your father your word." Duncan replied, desperately appealing to her sense of honor, heart sinking as he realized he had erred terribly in his gamble. "If not for me, then keep your word to him."

"My father will understand." Torran's shoulders slumped and she turned away, disappearing into the night.

* * *

_I'm surprised she even returned._ Duncan mused to himself as he and the girl carefully led their mounts down the steep ridge, on foot after a treacherous shale slide had almost cost them their extra mount and supplies. They followed the ever sure footed mabari to the valley floor, boots squelching as they tramped through lush the undergrowth.

"When we arrive," Torran glanced up as he addressed her. "I will take you to the King and Teyrn Loghain to present your case. Afterward, I'm sure a place can be found for you within the retinues of one of the Banns, at which point I will leave you. I must ready my men for the battle to come, as well as administer a Joining for the others in your recruit pool."

"Understood," The girl replied without missing a beat, seemingly unconcerned about his looming departure from her side. Duncan gritted his teeth, fighting down his irritation.

The journey across the valley floor to the ruins went much quicker when they remounted their horses, and all too soon they could hear the sounds of the camp before them. Torran stiffened in her seat as the shouts of men began filling the air, sergeants-at-arms harassing their troops as preparations were made for the upcoming battle. She could see soldiers running throughout the bleached white ruins ahead, archers setting up ballistae on the ancient bridge that spanned the gap between the Tower of Ishal and Ostagar proper while elven servants ran back and forth carrying messages and supplies.

_Just breathe, Torran._ She thought, trying to relax and let the sounds wash over her. She didn't know why the reactions had manifested following..._They got me good, baby sister_...but she wished the anxiety that reared its ugly head whenever voices were raised or bodies neared would shift to something more understandable. Spiders, for example, or perhaps the color blue.

"Halt and be recognized!" Torran started, then followed Duncan's lead and brought her horse to a stop as a man at arms hailed them from the first visible picket line. They were quickly surrounded by a group of men and women who seemingly appeared out of nowhere from the surrounding foliage, weapons bristling. Bear traded snarls with their oddly painted mabari, keeping his position between his mistress and the strangers.

"I am Duncan, Warden Commander of Fereldan." Duncan introduced himself, and then turned to Torran with a barely noticeable hesitation. "this is…Teyrna Torran Cousland of Highever."

"Cousland? I heard them was traitors. Orlesian sympathizers or summat." Torran stiffened with anger as she heard the whispered mutters, fists clenching around her reins.

"Follow me, Ser." The lead scout replied quickly, shooting a glare that immediately silenced his men. "The King has been awaiting your presence at camp for days."

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid I was….delayed returning from the North." A frown settled across the warden's features. It was clear that rumors of Highever's fall had reached the army, though how much of it was true remained to be seen. "Torran," he murmured softly, conscious of the pricking of their guide's ears as he led them through the second and third picket lines. They were nearly to the Tower of Ishal, and Duncan knew their time to speak freely was short.

"Did Howe beat us?" She replied just as softly, voice and face neutral. Only her whitened knuckles revealed the fight for control he knew was going on inside her head.

"I don't know. When we reach the King, I beg of you, hold it together. We don't know what the situation is yet, but I fear it is far worse than we expected."

* * *

"Ah, Duncan, my friend!" the warden and his charge jumped to their feet as King Cailan burst into the conference tent with a boisterous grin and open arms. Like most Fereldan's, the King was fair of hair and eye, though his youth evident in the patchy beard it appeared he was trying to grow. "We feared you would never make it, and who would be left to lead the Wardens then?"

"We could do with fewer undisciplined warriors in our ranks." Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir ducked into the King's tent, the permanent scowl twisting into a sneer as he and Duncan shared a glance. "Perhaps it would be for the best."

"My King, Teyrn Loghain." Duncan crossed his arms and bowed to the two men. "May I introduce-"

"Oh, I know who she is!" Cailan interrupted the warden, as he strode up to a startled Torran and shook her hand. "Bryce's youngest! Torran, was it?" His boyish face hardened as he stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Shame about what had to happen."

"Had to happen…what?" Torran backed up until she was by Duncan's side. _This is all wrong!_

"Are you saying you weren't aware of your father's espionage?" Teyrn Loghain demanded. "Arl Howe had passed his suspicions to me before, but it wasn't until he discovered the Orlesian documents in your father's study that he was forced into action."

"Espionage? My father was no spy!" Torran shot back angrily. "Arl Howe is lying! He attacked us without provocation and slew everyone in the castle not a ten-day ago! His men killed _children_, my lords!"

"Then explain these, Teyrna Cousland." Loghain casually tossed a packet of papers onto the large table and watched as the girl picked one up with a shaking hand.

Torran's eyes widened in shock as she took in the all too familiar hand, and ran her finger over the intricate seal. A seal made by the pommel of the sword currently sheathed on her back. "No! These can't be real! My father was an honorable man! He _loved_ Fereldan and her people, your Majesty."

"I'm afraid they are, milady." King Cailan's voice was apologetic, unlike the grating sneer in Loghain's. "Unfortunately, I have encountered far too many honorable men who are easily sold, leaving me little choice in the matter."

"What about the attack, milord?" Duncan stepped in as Torran faltered. "Surely the amount of violence used in taking the castle was unnecessary? Especially if evidence only points to one man? As Teyrna Cousland said, women and children, servants and noble alike, were killed. I witnessed the atrocities myself."

"Collateral." Loghain replied firmly. "We are under attack in the south by the darkspawn, and can allow no weakness, no divisions, _especially_ in the case of Orlesian spies!" His face twisted with hate as he spat the name of their neighboring country.

"_Collateral?_" Torran hissed, fist squeezing the hilt of the dagger sheath at her side hard enough to leave a painful impression. Beside her, Bear crouched, growl rumbling in the back of his throat as he bared his teeth at the lords. The guards at the tent entrance shifted uncomfortably, hands sliding to their weapons. "You call the _murder_ of my entire family collateral? Oren was _five years old_, Maker take you!"

_But I want to play with a real sword, Auntie!_ She jerked, dagger sliding in its sheath, the motion startling one of the guards into half drawing his sword.

"Please, everyone, calms yourselves!" Cailan interjected with a weak laugh, raising his hands helplessly. "Peace! Lady Torran, I'm sorry about your family, but my hands are tied in this matter. The Banns of Highever have spoken, and they believe the claims to be true. Under the eyes of the Maker, Arl Howe has been lawfully elected Teyrn of Highever, and there is little I can do without creating an untenable political situation. You do, however, have several options that may be to your liking."

"What sort of options?" Duncan moved so he was just between the infuriated girl and the King, poised to grab her sword hand should she make a rash decision.

"Exile." Loghain replied promptly, enjoying the fear that flashed through the girl's eyes. "You will be stripped of noble title and set on the first ship heading to your country of choice. I wouldn't suggest Orlais, however," he chuckled nastily. "Though I suppose I would have ample reason to have you executed for your father's crimes, if that were the case."

"The Chantry of Lothering has agreed to take you in," Cailan added cheerfully. "Provided, of course, you live out the rest of your days within the bounds of the outpost."

"And the other?" Duncan growled through gritted teeth.

"Arl Howe's second oldest son, Nathaniel, remains unmarried. The Arl has agreed to let Torran come back to Highever if she agrees to marry the boy, and cede inheritance rights to the Howe line." The king's voice implied he hoped she would take the offer.

"I would rather die," Torran bit out harshly. "than marry a Howe. And I would rather live out the rest of my days in the Free Marches, than live in a kingdom ruled by a useless _fool_ like you!" She spat at the King's feet, and the tent immediately rang with the sound of drawn swords.

"Conscription!" Duncan shouted. Loghain held up a lazy fist and the guards stopped their advance, though their swords didn't lower in the slightest. "I invoke the Right of Conscription on this woman, your Majesty."

"Perhaps the best option." Cailan frowned confusedly at the girl, unable to understand why she would have chosen against a good marriage. Alas, if only she'd spent as much time on protocol as swordplay "Very well. Torran Cousland," She met his gaze defiantly, eyes burning with hatred and loathing. "From this day forth, you are stripped of both title and claim to Highever, never to be recovered."

_You are the Cousland. Do your duty, daughter. _"Your Highness." Torran bowed low, voice and face still, though inside her thoughts were screaming.

"Welcome to the Grey Wardens, recruit." Duncan rested a hand on her shoulder, meeting Loghain's glare with a satisfied one of his own. Though he wished, for Torran's sake, this conversation had gone better, he had ultimately gotten what he wanted.

"Is there anything else?" King Cailan asked, though all could hear the dismissal in his voice. No one spoke. "Good. You will be in good hands with Duncan, Torran. I will be in contact with you in the near future, Warden Commander. We have much to discuss."

"As you wish, your Majesty." Duncan bowed slightly as the King swept from the tent.

"If I see that girl outside of your camp of fools and criminals before the battle, I will have her flogged." Loghain snarled as he strode out of the tent. "You won't always have the King's favor, _Warden._ I eagerly await that day." The tent flap slid closed behind him and the guards, leaving Torran, Duncan, and Bear alone.

* * *

**Next Time: ****The Joining ceremony, tainted truths, and a strange dream.**


	4. Chapter 3: Part 2

**Chapter Three, Part Two:** **Meet the Wardens**

"All cleayaaah!"

_Seven calls. Nearly dawn._ Torran sat alone by a dying fire, body shaking with fatigue, eyes burning from exhaustion, and yet her mind wouldn't let her sleep. She had grown used to the quiet ambiance of night in the forest, comforted by the gentle murmur of life going about its business. The sounds of the army camp were jarring to her ears in comparison, stretching her nerves paper thin. Each sound triggered a memory that lay in wait behind her drooping eyelids, flashes of red hair and _blood pooling from the gaping wound in- _Her eyes shot open. She'd almost fallen asleep, again.

Several hours had passed since Daveth and Jory, her fellow recruits and Wardens-to-be, finally retreated to their bedrolls, chased away by her quiet refusal to engage in conversation. Jory, the large knight, was nice enough, but his continuous talk of his wife and child was enough to set her teeth on edge. Daveth, on the other hand, was a hardened rogue with leering eyes and a sharp tongue that he employed in teasing his well-mannered, if a bit dim, compatriot. The slight man had spent half the evening attempting to pry into her life, and, when that failed, used the other half trying to talk his way into her bedroll. An angry growl from a protective Bear soundly concluded that line of conversation.

_And these are the people meant to be Wardens..._ Torran lay back, resting her head on Bear's warm flank. _Twenty men, a girl, and a dog._ After the stories Duncan had told her, of Garahel, or Sophia Dryden, she had been expecting a diverse group of warriors, heroes and anti-heroes, to share a fire with. Instead, as the sun began peeking over the hills of Ostagar, it was fresh faced boys and weary, hardened men who emerged from the tents of the Warden camp.

The camp was a simple affair. Each warden had a tent to himself, though a good number of men chose to sleep on bedrolls or even hard ground by the main fire. A smattering of men isolated themselves from the circle of tents around the main fire, settling down in dark corners made by fallen buildings and, of course, the stone walls that made up the core defense of Ostagar. A long ramp led down into the central supply base, with entrances to the camps of the King and the Chantry appearing at intervals like the spokes of a wheel.

She felt Bear tense, and followed his gaze to the man approaching their lonely fire pit. His stride was confident, but she could tell by the way his eyes flicked to her and away that he was nervous. The weak smile he cast her way as he reached speaking distance only affirmed her evaluation. He reminded her of someone she'd met recently... She scowled and pushed the thought away. It wasn't his fault the current focus of her ire was a fair haired Fereldan man.

"Ah good, you're already awake! I was afraid I was going to have to poke you with a stick, or something. Never surprise a woman armed with pointy things, I always say." He laughed weakly, trailing off as Torran's eyes narrowed in irritation. Bear clambered to his feet beside her, teeth bared in a menacing snarl. "...or a very big dog... Um, introductions, right. I'm Alistair, most junior of Fereldan's Wardens."

"What do you want?" Torran ignored his outstretched hand and forced her weary body into standing. "I thought recruits weren't supposed to mingle with full Wardens."

"Oh! Erm, Duncan sent me to fetch you and the other two recruits. We're supposed to see the quartermaster and get you kitted out before we depart." He bent to scratch Bear's head and then retrieved his hand quickly as the hound let loose a growl, chuckling nervously. "Heh, good doggie..."

"I see." _Idiot._

"By Andraste's tits, she speaks!" Alistair's mouth closed with a snap as he glared over her shoulder at the two men approaching them. The first was dark haired man garbed in black leathers, twin daggers, and a sardonic smirk. Following behind him was a giant of a man in recently polished plate mail, the greatsword strapped to his back clanking with each step.

"Must you insist on using such foul language, Daveth?" The big man whined nasally, eyes lifted beseechingly to the heavens. "It's one thing to do so around men, soldiers, but quite another when around a lady! Forgive my crude companion, Torran."

"What? The girl spoke nary a word all nigh'! I never thought I'd say it, but blessed be the Maker for openin' a woman's mouth!" Daveth nodded in greeting to Alistair and then leered at Torran. "If you need any practice in using it...?"

Torran stiffened as he entered her space, hand sliding instinctively to her dagger's hilt. "Come any nearer and you'll have another hole to play with."

"By my stars, she's got a tongue on her too! I wonder what else you can do wi-"

"Quartermaster!" Alistair yelped, voice cracking as his cheeks heated up in embarrassment. "I mean," he cleared his voice with a cough, squaring his shoulders. _You're a Warden, Alistair! Act like it, dammit._ "We should get moving. Duncan wants to meet with us shortly to brief you on your Joining." Daveth and Jory shared excited grins at the news, but Torran remained dispassionate. The girl quietly gathered up her sword and shield and waited for Alistair to show them the way.

_Odd girl._ Alistair shrugged and headed across camp towards the ramp, the three recruits and dog trailing behind him.

* * *

_To His Excellency Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever,_

_I have conferred with my counselors, and the marquesses of Orlais will not spare more than two-score Chevalier to bolster the garrison of Highever. It is detrimental to both Fereldan and my nation that such intrigues come with the beginning of the first Blight in over four Ages in this, the Dragon, but we must do our duty. I await your next missive, and hope that we can resolve this threat to the mutual peace of our nations. _

_Empress Celene I of Orlais_

Duncan's brow furrowed as he read the pile of papers he had removed from the King's conference tent after the disastrous interaction between the Cousland girl and Teyrn Loghain. From what he could gather of the mismatched missives, Bryce Cousland had indeed been negotiating illicit movements of forces with Orlais, but to what gain he could not determine. He was certain, however, that there were missing pieces to the puzzle, and those pieces were undoubtedly in the hands of Arl Howe and Teyrn Loghain.

_What manner of intrigues would interest the Empress of Orlais enough to ally with a Fereldan teyrn?_ He wondered, stroking his beard as he gazed through the letter in his hand. _Moreover, why would Bryce Cousland, one of the heroes of Fereldan's liberation from Orlais, choose to ally himself with such a recent and unpopular enemy? Why would he risk it?_

His sharp hearing picked up a group of people heading in his direction, and a glance at the timepiece hanging from a post in his modest tent confirmed the arrival of Alistair and the would-be-Wardens. "Enter!"

"Good morning, Ser." Alistair saluted Duncan with a fist across his chest, and the two men behind him quickly emulated the motion. Torran, standing slightly behind her companions, hovered by the entrance, arms crossed over her chest. A shadow moving behind the flap revealed the presence of her hound. "Here are our recruits, as promised. They have been fed, supplied, and armed, as per your orders."

"So I can see," Duncan appraised the three, noting Jory's new helm and thick leather sword strap, and Daveth's bandolier of vials and powders. Unlike the men, Torran had completely replaced her armor, exchanging the Cousland studded leather for a dark outfit of leather and chain. Oddly enough, she'd left her sword arm completely bare from the shoulder down, revealing the strange tattoo. A fingerless glove protected her hand, leather creaking as she clenched her fists.

"Today," The Warden Commander began abruptly, rising to his feet so he could pace before them. "You take the first steps on a long, difficult journey. At this moment, if any of you feel doubts, this is your last opportunity to put aside the duty for which you've been selected." Jory shifted nervously, but remained silent. Daveth and Torran remained impassive, as the traditional statement did not apply to them. They had been Conscripted, and the only alternative would be accepting the consequences from which they'd been saved.

"A Joining is no mere ritual of handshakes and empty words," Duncan continued, eyes distant. "It is a lifelong commitment that will affect, _change_, your mind, body, and soul. Today, and in the days immediately following, you will understand my words, but for now, your duties are simple. When we have finished here, Alistair will lead the three of you into the Korcari Wilds, where you will encounter darkspawn. You will find them, you will follow them, and you will slay them. For each you individually slay, return with a vial of its blood."

"H-how long will we be out there?" Jory stumbled over the question, heat rising in his cheeks as Daveth snorted and shot him a condescending sneer.

_Coward. _Torran thought scathingly, hands tightening around her biceps. _Is this what Father wanted for me? Is this all the Wardens are?_

"Until nightfall, no later. You are each responsible for at least three vials of blood, from three different darkspawn. Alistair?" Duncan's pace slowed as he turned to the only other Warden in the tent.

"Ser?"

"Take Jory and Daveth with you to the gate. Torran will follow along shortly."

"Yes, Commander." Alistair repeated the salute, then ushered Daveth and Jory out of the tent, sparing a single curious glance at the remaining recruit as they went.

"I need to know that you can do this," Duncan said finally, settling against the edge of his desk.

"What makes you think I can't?" Torran shot back heatedly. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"This." Duncan lunged forward, dagger appearing in his hand as if through a spell.

_My little Oren..._ Torran flinched back, belatedly drawing her weapon in time to meet Duncan's weak slash.

"This is why I'm concerned about sending you out there." The Warden disengaged, giving the shaken girl space to compose herself. "If there were time, I would have you training daily to recover your confidence, but as it is..." he sighed deeply, lines in his face aging him beyond his years. "Fereldan is in need of Wardens now more than ever before. This Blight comes at a strange time, and events are moving in ways unheard of in the records and tales."

"Why are you telling me this?" Torran sheathed her sword, but Duncan could tell she was anything but relaxed. Her competitive nature wouldn't let her fail twice, and he fervently hoped she could harness that edge in the coming days.

"I'm telling you this because I need you, Torran. I have enough burnouts and boys within my ranks, and need more than the forced loyalty of another."

"Does this have anything to do with my father's framing?" Green eyes flicked from the paper's on Duncan's desk and back to his steady gaze.

"Having read the correspondence," Duncan spoke carefully, measuring his words, "and compared them to some of the missives I have been receiving from the other Warden Commanders, I am less and less certain of the truth to Teyrn Loghain and Arl Howe's accusations." He carefully folded the papers and handed them to the girl. "Read these later. When the Joining is complete, we will speak of this again, and what it means for Fereldan and this Blight. Now go, join the others, and the Maker be with you all."

Torran held his gaze for a moment and then bowed slightly, packing away the letters in her satchel before departing. The shadow hovering at the tent entrance chuffed once at the dark skinned man and then disappeared to his mistress's side.

_Maker, watch over the new recruits on their quest. If ever the Warden's needed your favor, it is now. _With a sigh, Duncan turned back to the business of command, trying desperately to force aside the feeling of foreboding slowly seeping into his bones.

* * *

**Next Time: Hunting for darkspawn, hidden players, and the Joining.**


	5. Chapter 3: Part 3

**A/N: **As always, thanks so much for the support! Enjoy this addition to Chapter 3. -Perching Kite

* * *

**Chapter Three, Part Three: A Hunting We Will Go**

"Where...are...the bloody...darkspawn!" Jory huffed, repeating the complaint he'd uttered every handful of minutes since the first step they'd taken out of Ostagar. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow as he baked under the weight of his heavy plate armor, and his face and scalp were bright red from sunburn after stripping off his helmet to avoid cooking his brain. Daveth's remark that he wouldn't otherwise notice the difference led an exasperated Alistair to separating the two squabblers, placing Torran between them and ending her self-imposed seclusion at the rear.

"Any more bellyachin' outta you an' they'll be sure to find us!" Daveth muttered darkly. He wasn't faring any better in his dark leathers, though fashioning a rough bandana out of some bandages and drenching them in water from his flask helped.

"Would the both of you be silent?" Torran barked, green eyes glaring daggers at the two men from the depths of her mask-like tattoo. She carried herself as though the heat didn't touch her, even beneath the heavy leather and chain. Unlike the fairer men, her dusky skin showed no sign of burn, and her step never faltered as they marched through the swampy forest.

Daveth opened his mouth, no doubt readying the deployment of another of his seemingly endless supply of lecherous comments, then shut it as her eyes narrowed further. _Bitch._ Donning an air of cavalier indifference, the rogue increased the pace of his swagger until he was even with Alistair, leaving a nervous Jory to continue beside the scowling girl.

"So, er..." The big man began, hesitating as Torran's eyes flicked to him and back into the distance. He wiped his brow quickly then started again. "Ah, well, I was wondering how it was that you decided to join the Wardens?"

_I don't think I'll survive the standing..._ "You haven't heard the rumours?" Torran murmured softly. "The news was pretty common, though perhaps moreso due to my arrival..." She ran her hand through her choppy hair reflexively, pulling lightly at the roots. The last tears had fallen with her shorn locks.

"Well, the Wardens aren't a particularly chatty bunch, I've found," Jory replied, brightening visibly at the prospect of holding a conversation with someone who didn't constantly snipe at him. "When I'm not at the camp, I'm usually offering my services at the Chantry with the wounded. My wife is a nurse, you see..."

Torran let his babble flow through the backdrop of her mind, concentrating instead on smothering the growing sense of unease stirring within her gut. The disquiet came from multiple directions, and the sole comfort she had was the soothing Nevarran dirge that had echoed beneath her thoughts since that night in the clearing.

For the first time since...leaving home, Bear was not by her side. The Warden guarding the gate to the Wilds refused to let her depart until sending her hound back to their fire, and she had done so with great reservation. Who was she supposed to trust to defend her? Bumbling, fearful Jory? Daveth, who would lay her on her back before watching it? Alistair seemed a nice enough fellow, but his lack of confidence was becoming more and more irritating as he led them off the well trod paths immediately surrounding Ostagar and deeper into the bog.

More than not trusting her companions, Torran felt she couldn't trust herself. How could she, when she started like a child at loud noises, or mere contact between human beings? Where had her will to fight gone? How would she defend herself against monsters if she could barely face men? What would Fergus say- _Nothing. He would say nothing. He will never say anything ever again. Oh Gods, Fer-_ She shut down that line of thought, eyes squeezed shut as she drew in a deep breath.

"And then I told my boy...Um, are you alright, Tor-"

A branch snapped, and Alistair quickly held up a fist. His eyes scanned the surrounding flora, reaching out with both remnant Templar abilities and the bonds of the Taint for signs of the darkspawn's twisted signature. _Damn._ Slowly, he lowered his fist, and the group trouped onward. Sunlight filtered through the tightly interwoven bows of twisted trees. In the shadows of the dimly lit bog, everything felt muffled and muted. Hands strayed to weapons as thoughts turned to old tales about the Wilds, and the countless adventurers and armies swallowed up in its depths.

A few minutes passed, and Daveth chuckled uneasily. "Warden-senses tinglin', eh, Al?" He flinched as a low hanging branch brushed across his shoulder, and then scowled at Jory as the big man let out a bark of a laugh. The knight quieted as the bushes to their right rustled, ruddy face pinched with fear.

"Like an icicle stuck in my trousers," the fair haired Warden responded grimly, eyes still casting about for their foe. He could feel them all around them, but his eyes and ears told him nothing. Not even his sense of smell, amplified by the Taint coursing through his blood, could pick up the foul smelling darkspawn.

"Perhaps it was just a rabb-" Jory's voice disappeared as a discordant howl echoed throughout the forest. The three recruits cringed, holding their ears against the pain inducing cacophony. Alistair remained unaffected, sword and shield appearing in his hands in a flash as the area surrounding their small footpath came alive with growls and snarls.

"Ready yourselves!" He cried, whirling as he felt darkspawn moving in on him from all directions. Torran was the first of the recruits to recover, slinging her shield into place as her father's sword settled firmly into her palm. Daveth and Jory quickly followed suit, and the four arranged themselves in a loose diamond formation. The two lighter armored fighters stood closer to the center, while Jory held a large area to himself in order to swing his massive blade, and Alistair moved to where he could sense the most darkspawn.

Torran could feel her heart pounding as though trying to escape her chest. Sweat trickled down her brow, stinging her eyes and salting her chapped lips. Her mind raced, memories of _that night_ surging to the fore as she struggled to keep herself focused on the present. All of a sudden, the ground shifted beneath her feet and she felt herself falling, a startled yelp escaping her lips as the path erupted into chaos.

"Below us!" Alistair shouted as a group of nightmarish creatures exploded from the ground all around them, and several dark shapes appeared between the trees to bear down on the small group.

Torran felt her stomach clench as she found herself staring up at a burly, humanoid figure with a terrifying snarl stretched across its pale face. Drool fell from its jagged fangs as beady, white eyes fixed hungrily upon her. A foul stench wafted from its gaping jaws, and she could feel bile rising in the back of her throat at the sight of scraps of pink flesh that her gut told her once belonged to a man, or woman, or child.

The hurlock's rusty blade whistled toward her head, and she barely raised her shield in time to block the blow that would have ended her. Her arm buckled at the force of the strike, and she threw herself into a roll to dodge the next blow, coming to her feet with a stagger, off-balanced. Her body felt slow, sluggish, and she barely responded in time to deflect the next blow with a weak parry that jarred her sword arm.

_Fight, damn you!_ She stumbled back, narrowly missing a slash that would have emptied her intestines to the earth, raging internally at her weakness. _I can't die yet!_ A stray sunbeam hit the flat of her blade, and suddenly all she could see was a pair of terrified green eyes surrounded by the inky black mask. _Death's mask...Death for Howe...and any that stand in my way..._ Suddenly, the rage buried below the ice that had frozen her emotions solid blazed free like an inferno, and she felt the fatigue in her muscles burn away.

Her sword flashed, meeting the hurlock's blade with a clang, sparks flying as the solid steel of her father's sword met the rust covered iron weapon. The hurlock growled fiercely, spittle flying as it bore down on the girl with all its weight. She held the lock for a split second and then disengaged, stepping around the darkspawn as it lurched forward and delivering a powerful blow to the back of its head with her shield. Dazed, the hurlock couldn't respond in time to avoid the slash that severed its spinal cord and sent it to the ground in a heap.

... Torran stood over her fallen enemy, chest heaving as adrenaline raced through her veins. As she gazed down at the nightmarish creature, all she could see was the curled lip, the icy blue eyes, the hooked nose... the edge of her shield crushed the hurlock's windpipe with a loud crunch, and its movements stilled.

Sludgelike blood flowed over her wrist as she stood, streaking her tattooed arm with the foul smelling gore. _They've gone to the Maker, Fergus..._ She whirled, barreling into a smaller darkspawn and forcing it to the earth with a shove of her shield. She stabbed it through the chest with a vicious blow, sending blood spurting into the air as its last breaths exited its body. Her sword struck a second time, and then a third, hammering its limp form as she released a cry of pure fury.

"Torran!" An armored hand pulled her away from the decimated corpse and behind a large shield that echoed with thunks as several arrows hammered into it. She flinched back as Alistair gazed down at her in concern. "Maker, woman! You may be prickly, but I doubt Duncan, much less your monster-dog, would appreciate me bringing home a Porcu-Torran!"

"Must you always make an attempt at humour?" Torran growled back in reply, body all but vibrating with the need to get back into the fray. _... _She got to her feet, shield taking several arrows of its own as she moved so she and the warden were side by side.

"Short answer? Yes." Alistair winked, then took a peak over his shield. "Uhoh..." Somehow, the four had become separated in the fray. Daveth and Jory, each engaging their own foe, were too focused on the fight at hand to see the pair of archers sneaking towards them from just beyond the treeline. Unfortunately, two genlocks and a hurlock were approaching Torran and his position, and he could see another archer laying down the covering fire that was keeping his shield busy.

"Alistair, what's the plan?" Torran demanded, shifting so that her shield arm was to the persistent archer off to their left, and her sword the approaching darkspawn. They had mere moments, and if they didn't do something, their friends would be completely cut off and left to the mercy of the archers. "Alistair! The plan?"

"Uh..." Alistair's eyes flicked from their imperiled companions to the darkspawn quickly closing in on him and Torran. _Think, dammit, think! _"Er, don't die?"

_Is he serious?_ Torran stared at him in disbelief, and then shook her head in disgust. _Fine. Maker take him, anyway._ "Daveth, archers at twenty paces right! Jory, switch!" She charged forward, agilely dodging the low strikes aimed at her knees from the genlocks and dive rolling underneath the hurlock's decapitating blow. A burst of speed got her out of range of the archer pinning down Alistair, and she quickly passed Jory as he lumbered into the hurlock with all the grace of a charging bear. Behind her, she could hear the two heavily armored men engaging the three darkspawn, though the arrow flashing by her ear told her the archer hadn't stayed to play.

Putting it out of mind, she quickly engaged the two genlocks, ducking, dodging, and parrying as they hammered her with powerful, though wild, blows. From the corner of her eye she could see Daveth flitting through the shadows, taking down one of the archers with a violent slash to the throat and moving in on the other as it became alerted to his presence.

_There._ Torran shoved hard with her shield, knocking the genlock on her left to the ground just far enough away to give her the necessary space to take care of its compatriot. A savage blow removed the beast's hand from its sword, and a second spilled its guts to the earth. A delighted grin stretched across her face as her sword lashed out, taking its head from its shoulders. _..._

The second genlock climbed to its feet, hissing as it approached her with its dirty shortsword held aloft. She smirked. Three blows later found her kneeling over its still form, sword buried to the hilt in its gut as she slammed at its face with her shield. So wrapped up in her frenzy was she that she didn't see the remaining archer placing her in its sights, barbed arrow straining on the string...

Alistair dispatched his enemy cleanly, then looked up in disgusted fascination at the blood covered girl unleashing her rage on the all but juiced corpse on the ground before her. Jory pushed past him, lifting a finger in horror. "Torran! Torran, look out!"

"...ook out!" The shout cut through the bloodlust, and she lifted her eyes to see her companions gesticulating wildly to her right. She turned her head, everything moving in slow motion, and saw the hurlock archer bare its teeth in a cruel facsimile of a smile as it loosed its arrow. The shaft whistled through the air towards her upper body, and she felt a whisper of resignation seep into her heart.

Suddenly, a grey blur slammed into her, throwing her out of the path of the arrow. _What in the world?_ Torran watched dazedly as one of Daveth's throwing knives took the archer, head spinning from the force that had carried her to the ground. _What was that thing?_ She caught a flash disappearing down the path and scrambled to her feet, intent on following the creature away from the scene.

Ignoring the calls of her friends, she chased after it, staggering as the adrenaline faded from her bloodstream and the fatigue from lack of sleep, not to mention the battle, weakened her muscles. Just as she was about to give up the chase, she came upon the... _Wolf. That is a very, very large wolf._ The beast stared at her with a smug look in its golden eyes, then winked _It winked? _and ran away, disappearing into the forest like a shadow.

_What was that thing?_ Torran stared after it, brow creased in confusion. _Better yet, why would it save me?_

"Torran! What in blazes?" Alistair and the others came charging around the bend, bloodied weapons still in hand. "Maker take me, what was that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine..." She replied tiredly, wiping her hands ineffectively on bloodsoaked leathers. The forest, eerily quiet during their engagement with the darkspawn force, returned to life. Sun trickled through the interwoven bows of the swamp trees, and crickets resumed their chirping.

"Um, here." Jory handed her her sword and shield, then stepped away quickly. After watching Torran go from a quiet, brooding girl to a bestial fighter, he wasn't sure which he should fear more.

"Thanks." Torran took the weapons reverently, rubbing her thumb softly over the chipped greenstone pommel before sheathing them on her back.

"Though I don't suppose you really need them anyways, eh?" Daveth remarked with a smirk, nodding at the blood that still dripped from the girl's gauntleted fingers. "An' here I thought the touch of a woman could soothe all creatures!"

"That's quite enough, all of you." Alistair cut in with an officious tone belied by his red-stained cheeks. "Let's get back and collect the blood from your kills, alright? The day is yet young, and there are still many darkspawn to face." Jory and Daveth groaned, but turned to head back to the corpses that were surely buzzing with flies in the heat. "Come on, come on! We can take a short break soon. It would be best if we left the area before more darkspawn happen upon us, so hop to it!"

Torran scoffed internally as she trailed after the three men. _Now you have a plan, little Warden?_ A fallen branch snapped off to their side, and Jory jumped a clear three paces away from the sound as Daveth let loose a loud cackle at his companion. Alistair patted the larger man on the shoulder with a friendly smile. The grin slipped as he stepped knee deep off the small footpath and into the bog, cursing as the rogue snickered once again.

_Where is Bear when I need him?_ Heaving a sigh, Torran prayed to any god that was listening that the day's expedition would come to an end soon, and she could finally confront Duncan about the letters tucked safely at her side.

* * *

The wolf watched the humans with humour filled golden eyes until they'd disappeared down the path, then quickly loped off, heading deeper and deeper into the Wilds. A journey that would've taken days by the known paths took mere minutes at the pace it set. A rundown shack soon appeared through the vines and tightly interwoven branches that characterized the dark, moody depths of the Korcari Wilds.

As the large creature approached the wooden building, a bright light rose around it like dawn's mist, and the lithe body of a young woman appeared in its place.

"I'm back, Mother." Silence. She stifled a sigh, schooling her features into a neutral mask as she entered the rough hovel. "Mother?" She raised her voice slightly, golden eyes flicking to the screened off section of the room that served as their shared bed-quarters.

"I'm here, girl." A grey haired woman with the same eyes stepped from behind the ragged cloth draped between rooms, a long bamboo cane held with both hands steadying her aging bones. "Must you constantly be so loud?"

"My apologies, Mother."

"Well, what is it, girl?"

"I was observing the human army earlier this morning..."

"Yes, yes, as I told you to. What did you see that made you feel you needed to return and bother me?"

"If you would but let me speak I would tell you..." the younger woman muttered sullenly, eyes flickering with barely concealed ire. "The Grey Wardens are conducting a Joining. One of them was a woman."

"A woman you say?" Ancient golden eyes brightened with anticipation. "Finally, it has begun!"

"Yes, Mother. What is to be our approach?"

"Continue to observe them. When the time comes, we will make ourselves known to the girl. Now leave me."

Eyes lowered a fraction. "As you wish, Mother."

* * *

**Next Time: The Joining, a dream, and some new tricks up their sleeves.**


	6. Chapter 3: Part 4

**Chapter Three, Part Four: The Joining**

Bear heaved a heavy sigh, leaves rustling as he flopped down in a shaded corner near the gate to the Wilds. Another hour, another circuit around the Warden camp, and his mistress still hadn't come back. He couldn't believe that she'd gone with the three human men and left him behind! She'd assured him that he'd done nothing wrong, but it was a serious affront to a war-hound of any ilk, much less one of his noble heritage, to be kept back while his mistress went into battle.

"Here, dog." A passing warden stopped to drop a meaty bone by his thick snout. "Either they return, or they don't. Only the Maker decides the fate of those who seek to be amongst the damned..." the grizzled man's words trailed off in a furious mutter as he quickly walked away. Bear tilted his head in confusion, then sighed again and nosed the tasty smelling bone. He wouldn't eat until he knew his pack was safe.

He lay there as the shadows grew longer, and the fierce sun overhead began sinking behind the hills and ridges. It was when the Wardens standing guard at the gate began lighting torches, and firelight sprang up around the walls of Ostagar, that the scent of his mistress hit his nose.

"Clear the way!" The silly yellow man strode through the gate with his arms outstretched. "Get a medic! We have wounded!" Bear charged forward, nose in the air, knobby tail wagging agitatedly as he searched for Torran. Daveth staggered in behind Alistair, using a thick branch as a crutch as he tried and failed to keep weight off his left ankle. Jory followed after, shoulders bowed in exhaustion as he shifted the limp female-smelling form held in his arms.

"Bear?" A happy bark rang out as Torran appeared in the wake of the big man. Her short hair was tacky with blood, and stains covered her from head to foot, but the small smile on her lips reassured the hound that his girl was alright. Bear reared up and licked at her face, then whimpered, nose scrunching up at the taste of the darkspawn blood and grime. "I missed you too, boy." Torran stroked his head softly, then backed up, letting him fall back to all fours before quickly following Alistair and the other wardens.

"Jory, lay her down here!"

"Give 'er some air, mate! Move your fat, hairy ar-"

"Would you shut your mouth, Daveth?" Alistair cried in exasperation. "Where's that bloody medic?"

"Here, Alistair!" A mousy haired young man sank to his feet beside the bedroll where Jory had placed his burden, near the main fire. "Where did you find this one? Darkspawn, am I right?" He quickly unloaded his satchel of bandages and poultices, hands moving confidently as he laid out his supplies and evaluated the woman's grievous injuries.

"We found her just beyond sight of the walls, Mort. She wasnt there when we left, so she must have been part of a scouting party already out doing the rounds." Alistair glanced around at the handful of wardens who had gathered to observe the scene. "Would one of you send a message out to the rest of the army, maybe try and figure out who she belongs to? She wasn't wearing armor, or any other identifying clothing when we found her." A large man with an even larger battleaxe strapped to his back grunted and turned away, presumably to take care of the task.

"They were probably ambushed by a squad like the one that almost got us, huh?" Jory spoke uncertainly, as though preparing for the Wardens to reject his idea.

"Maker, big guy." Daveth blinked at him, squinting through the pain of his wounded leg. "Either I'm delusional, or tha' was the closet thing to smart I've heard come outta your mouth yet." His mouth was quickly engaged by a healing potion tossed his way by the young warden, and he guzzled it down like a man parched.

"It is as we feared, then." The crowd of men parted as Duncan strode forward, a frown creasing his brow as he took in the grimy recruits gathered around the battered body of the as yet unidentified woman.

"They are beasts, Duncan." A grizzled archer shot back. "These claims from the Free Marches are baseless, not to mention ridiculous."

"We cannot discredit warnings when the result of our lack of preparation is displayed before our eyes." The Warden-Commander replied calmly, gesturing to the haggard looking recruits and the woman Mort was tending.

"Then you believe the rumours about this 'second Architect'?" Another warden interjected, this one with a solid, iron bound staff lashed to his back.

"Do you have any idea what they're talking about?" Jory whispered loudly to Torran and Daveth, ducking so his mouth was at their ears.

"Secret Warden stuff, now shut your gob, fool." The rogue hissed back, but it was too late. Realising they were speaking before the uninitiated, the two argumentative wardens stepped back into the crowd of men gathered to watch what was to happen next.

"Soon," Duncan raised his voice so all gathered could hear, "all will become clear to you, as it is to each member of our order. In the Wilds, you faced your first darkspawn. That you made it back alive speaks volumes of the talent and skill that lie within each of you. You have returned to us, one step closer to becoming part of a family of brothers, and sisters," he smiled slightly at Torran. "united by one mighty task." He paused, eyes unwavering as he met each recruit's gaze. "I offer now one last chance to turn down the honor of joining the ranks of the Grey Wardens. There are many reasons to turn away at this point, be it family," Jory flinched, sweat clearing tracks of grime from his face. "the desire for personal freedom," Daveth shifted, a surly expression twisting his lips. "Or personal vendettas." Torran met his gaze squarely, and nodded.

As Duncan spoke, repeating much of what he'd told her that evening in Lothering so long ago, Torran watched Alistair take the sack of vials they had so painstakingly acquired and pour them into a massive chalice placed on a rough stone stand near the main fire, across from Mort's workspace. The silver vessel glimmered in the firelight, revealing ancient carvings and runes that dated back to time unimaginable. Torran's eyes widened marginally as she realized blood should have started seeping over the side several vials ago, yet Alistair was still emptying blood into the goblet as though it were bottomless.

"Alistair," Duncan's voice was grave, heavy with the knowledge that he was more than likely about to lose at least one of the carefully cultivated new batch of recruits. "As the newest Warden, would you begin our Joining by reciting the words of ritual?"

"I would be honored to, Ser," Alistair stepped away from the chalice and stood before the three recruits. The crowd of Wardens had shifted so that they encircled the chalice and fire, each man bearing his weapon in hand, though Torran couldn't tell whether it was a ceremonial gesture or a security measure. Perhaps it was both. The fair-haired man cleared his throat, and began to speak. "Since the first, these words have been spoken at the ceremony: Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

"Peace a moment. Perish?" Jory backed away from the goblet hastily. "From that? Right now?"

"There are...risks." Duncan allowed grudgingly. Torran noted his hand drift deceptively close to his dagger, and, remembering the speed with which he drew it, shifted nervously. "You have come this far, Ser Jory, and faced countless dangers on the way. Will you really deny us now?"

"But, I have a wife! I have a son!" Behind the big man, the other wardens were stirring uneasily, some hefting their weapons and beginning to lean in the knight's direction. "You're telling me that after all the tests, all the near-death experiences, I could be killed by the Joining ceremony itself?"

"This is the secret to our abilities," Duncan held aloft the chalice, the runes seeming to flare at his touch. "By drinking the blood of our enemies we gain the power and strength to face their hordes on the battlefield, and follow the Taint itself to its source: the Archdemon. This is the source of our power, and our victory."

"By drinking the blood, you gain an immunity to the Taint," Alistair added softly, expression serious for the first time though his eyes were a hollow mixture of disgust and wonder. "your sense of sight, smell, hearing...all things go through a change, leaving us as mankind's best weapon against the darkspawn menace."

"That's blood magic! How has the Chantry not condemned this evil?" Jory gasped, reflexively crossing his arms over his chest in supplication to the Maker.

"Because it is necessary." Duncan said with finality. "Daveth, step forward."

"I s'pose if you're going to be a coward about it, we may as well let a man show you how it's done." Daveth spat at Jory's feet and, if gingerly, swaggered forward to salute Duncan. "I was a dead man when you found me, and I'll be a Tevinter's footstool before I dishonor what little dignity I have left. If helping to end the Blight requires my death, then I will consider my cards as fairly dealt."

Under the eyes of all gathered, the rogue grasped the chalice in both hands and lifted it to his lips. At first, nothing happened. He lowered the cup and handed it back to Duncan, a cocky smile beginning its well worn trek across his face when his entire body suddenly seized. Torran took a step forward and was forcibly held back by one of the wardens as Daveth's body strained and flailed on the ground before them. Torran felt bile rise in her throat as she watched the color leak out of Daveth's brown eyes and turn a sickly white. Finally, the dark haired man stilled, the movement of his chest slowing until motion was imperceptible.

"I-is he alive?" Jory whispered, face white with horror.

"He is in the Maker's hands now." Duncan replied. "Step forward, Ser Jory." He held the goblet out to the big man, meeting his frightened gaze with a neutral one of his own.

"Maker forgive me." Jory raised the chalice to his lips in shaking hands and gulped hurriedly at the lukewarm mess. He drew in a choked breath as he handed the cup back to Duncan, and what little color remained to him drained out of his face as the tremors spread throughout his body until he too lay twitching on the ground. The seizure ended much like Daveth's, with Jory's dull eyes gazing up into the night, chest rising and falling in unsteady, jerking gasps.

"You were called to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good." Duncan stepped around Jory's limp form and held the chalice out to the Cousland girl. "From this day forth, you are a Grey Warden, and shall carry that title unto your death."

_Is this the end?_ Torran mused to herself as she stepped forward, the last of the Warden recruits, and accepted the silver goblet from the Warden-Commander. _Did the Maker bring me this far, away from the spirits of my family, just to die?_ She breathed in, smelling and tasting what could be her last breath this side of the Fade. Her eyes sought out Bear, and found him staring back at her from Mort's side. _I love you, Bear. Live well for me, if..._ Clearing her throat one last time, Torran brought the cup to her lips and focused on ignoring the nausea-inducing smell of the darkspawn blood.

The taste was...indescribable, she decided, as she gulped down the gooey liquid. Somehow, the cup seemed to finally run dry as she tossed its contents down her throat, and she handed it back to Duncan with a gasp. For a moment, she felt normal, and then the entire world tilted as she felt the heavy weight in her stomach begin writhing and twisting as though it were forcing itself into the nooks and crannies of her body. She didn't feel the impact as she hit the hard stones of the fortress floor, nor the cries pulling themselves from her throat as the oozing miasma of the Taint contorted itself into her every pore and synapse.

She was never more grateful to lose consciousness. The dream that was to steal her peace for nights to come made her pray she never fell asleep again.

"_Torran…" a loud Voice, terrifying in its intensity, spoke to her mind, compelling her to open her eyes. She found herself standing in a vast dance hall, surrounded by people with straight black hair and tattooed masks. Nevarrans. Music echoed throughout the chamber, pleasant to the ear and ringing with hope, joy, and beauty._

_Torran felt her legs begin to move in the steps of the dance as she was carried through the sea of empty faces. Hands grabbed at her, pulling and tugging lightly at her exquisite clothing, or gently caressing the tattoos on her face and arm. The people moved stiffly, eyes glazed as they danced to the ephemeral selection. All were dressed in fantastic finery, though before her eyes it seemed to twist, morphing and reverting as though struggling to conceal a horrific alter-ego._

"_Come, Torran..." She continued her dance, sometimes partnering with a blank faced man, or woman, other times dancing alone, but always moving in the same direction. Slowly, a figure appeared from across the dance hall, and seemed to be moving in her direction. The form was lithe and graceful, and certainly female. Blue eyes sparkled from behind a removable mask, and coppery strands framed the delicate face._

_As they grew nearer, the distortions seemed to occur more frequently. The music, once so beautiful, became jarring and discordant, painful to the ears. The clean purity of the marble floors began to disintegrate, and soot and ash began raining from the broken chandeliers swinging high above. Gashes and wounds opened in the bodies of the dancers, and their movements became even more stilted and mechanical. It was as though she had stepped into a macabre festival of death, but she noticed none of the changes occur. Her every thought was fixated on her approaching partner._

"_Wake me, Torran...Follow the music..." A shadow fell over the hall as the Voice murmured in her ear, and the cacophony rose to a crescendo as the two women met in the center._

"_Shall we dance?" The words emerged from Torran's mouth unwillingly as she held out a hand to the shorter woman before her._

"_I don't dance with strangers." The woman's voice cut through the discordant shriek like a perfectly tuned chord played on heartstrings thought torn asunder._

"_But I'm your partner. We're supposed to dance with each other." The voice using Torran's mouth sounded confused, almost irritated. The discord swelled in the hall, and the eruptions of darkness continued across the floors and ceilings._

"_How do I know it's really you if you're wearing a mask?" The woman stepped closer, and Torran felt her breath catch in her throat as a gentle hand caressed her face._

"_Because I'm not wearing a mask. This is me."_

"_Is it truly?" The woman's fingernails dug into the skin below her eye and pulled sharply, tearing away the black mask that covered Torran's face and eyes. "Look." a mirror appeared in the woman's hand, and she held it up to the taller woman._

_Blue eyes, a hooked nose, the cruel smirk... Torran screamed and attempted to dash the mirror aside, only to choke in horror as her hand twisted into that of a shriek and plunged into her partner's chest. As she slid to the floor, the blue gaze remained fixed on Torran's green, softening in forgiveness, and...tenderness. _

"_I see you're enjoying the ball, Torran Cousland." Her head shot up, fury contorting her features, as Rendon Howe stepped out of the crowd of dancers, the characteristic cruel smirk playing across his thin lips. The dark miasma seemed to grow stronger as he neared her, avoiding the blood pooling around the body of the woman she'd accidentally slain with a disgusted sneer. "You even provided my Master with a decent night's entertainment amongst his playthings. What luck, the newest Warden is of Nevarran blood! How pleased he was, so pleased!"_

"_What are you talking about, Howe?" Torran demanded, hands shaking with the desire to rip the smirking man to shreds. "Where am I? Why is this happening to me? Tell me, Maker take you!"_

"_Oh, you will learn soon enough, little Warden..." His words trailed into a sibilant hiss that grew louder and louder as the shadow stretched behind him. A wing fluttered in the depths, followed by the rasp of claws on stone. Behind her, she could hear the telltale slide of scales on stone, and felt the whisper of a tail-tip flick at her lower back. _

_"**BOW DOWN TO URTHEMIEL!**" She felt her knees buckle as the Voice thundered throughout the hall and into the depths of her mind._

"_No! I'll never bow to you!" Torran struggled to stay on her feet, fighting off the power of the compulsion that had led her through the dance and now wanted to force her to the ground. Her strength dissipated rapidly, and she soon found herself on hands and knees beside the torn body of the blue-eyed woman. _

"_You must remove your mask, Torran..." the beautiful voice rang out once more, and she felt her heart surge with renewed hope. "Remove the mask...it's the only way!"_

"_But I'm not wearing one!"_

"_Remove the mask!"_

**_"BOW DOWN TO URTHEMIEL!"_**

"It...s been...days, Mor...does not wake...soon..."

"_...re..mo...mask!"_

"The others...n't...take anoth...loss well. Wha...about...er hound?

**_"...ow...to...URTHEMIEL!"_**

"A mo...nt. Mort? I thin...stirring! Tor...ear me?"

"_YOU MUST REMOVE THE MASK!"_

**"..._THEMIEL!"_**

"Torran? Torran? Duncan, she's coming around. Torran!"

Her eyes opened, but all she could see was blue.

* * *

**Next time: **Making progress +1000exp...


	7. Interval - In the Dark

_You have done well, my pretty...clever girl..._

Leliana whimpered in her sleep, muscles taut and jaw clenched as she braced for the pain of Marjolaine's dagger piercing her side, as it did night after night, dream after dream.

Her brain flickered between images of that...time. Days, weeks, hours bleeding on end as the Fereldan's her lover had delivered her to punished her mercilessly. Treason, espionage, murder and theft were carved into her skin at the hands of the finest interrogators. Even now, even being a different person, living a different life, she could acknowledge their skill. That alone revealed the depths to which her soul had been condemned.

"No, please no!" The weight of the blankets, soothing to some, became as chains around her limbs. "S'il te plait, Marjolaine, aide-moi. S'il te plait..."

Only when they had torn every story, every word, limerick and rhyme; every scrap of knowledge from her mind until soundless sobs were all that escaped her raw and trembling lips, did they dispose of her ruined body into a cell far from the sun's reach.

It was there that she first felt the grace, the mercy, the warm light of the most beloved of the Maker's children. The Prophet Andraste came to her like a lover's caress, taking the broken bard into her bosom and giving her a vision of the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Leliana's eyelids trembled as tears welled in anticipation of the glory with which she had been gifted.

And then, for the first time, the dream changed.

Andraste's golden form morphed into a dark figure standing before her, hand outstretched. Gone were the open arms, and the choir of angels became as of banshees.

_Shall we dance?_

At once, inconceivably, she was filled with hope. She moved to accept the stranger's offer. As their hands touched it was as though her body was set alight. She burned, heat surging through every pore at the intensity of the connection she felt to the, _the woman,_ before her.

And then she was on fire, screams pouring from her lips as the hand passed through her body and straight to her heart, and she felt as though she might die...though of pain or pleasure she did not know.

"Sister Leliana? Sister Leliana?" Hands grasped her shoulders gently, shaking her small form, and she could feel the dream losing its grip. "It's just a dream, sister."

The last thing she saw as she felt the Fade lose its hold on her mind was a pair of eyes gazing into hers as though from a thousand leagues away. Green eyes.

"Awaken, Leliana!"

Leliana sat up with a gasp, forehead nearly colliding with that of the older woman leaning over her. "My apologies, Revered Mother." Calming her breathing, the young sister scooted away from the woman and collected herself. "It was but a dream. Thank you for waking me, I hate to think I might have disturbed the others from their sleep." She could feel her Orlesian accent leaking into her practiced Fereldan drawl _more like grunting_ and dropped her eyes, busying herself with removing the quilt twisted around her legs. The Revered Mother moved to the end of the bed, giving her space to recover from her nightmare.

"More than that, I think, but I am glad you are now well, my child." The leader of Lothering's Chantry was hidden in the dark of the small, sparse chamber, but Leliana could sense the gentle smile on her face in her words. "I was on my way to the chapel to pray. I have been feeling much disquiet myself, these past few nights." As she shifted, the comforting scent of incense and aged vellum wafted from her robes. "A Blight upon us, and the young King riding to war...Yes. Prayer is what is needed, at times like these."

"I am glad I did not awaken you, then." Leliana replied, desire to sleep fading rapidly as the dream receded, leaving only a warmth in her chest she had not felt for some time. "May I join you? The prayers of two are more powerful than those of one alone, no?" She rose and helped her elder to her feet, then quickly dressed in the simple habit worn by brothers and sisters of the Chantry.

"Of course. Come. Let us refresh our weary spirits with the succor of the Chant of the Light."


End file.
